The Sons Of Dreams
by Gene Dark
Summary: In a world where The Architect made the Ultimate Sacrifice and slew Urthemiel, an altered Warden Commander Tabris begins her quest to cure the taint and end the Blights once and for all. She returns to a capital rife with political intrigue, and begins a journey that will take her to the Vimmark Mountains, Tevinter, the ruins of Arlathan, and beyond. AU version of DA2.
1. Chapter 1: The Dragon's Eye

**_Chapter One: The Dragon's Eye_**

_The sons of dreams outlive the sons of seed._

from "The Persian Boy", by Mary Renault

_So this is what it is to fall from grace._

The Old God had once understood The Source. It had held it within itself, and even when debased and poisoned by taint had possessed a pale imitation of that state of grace. The Archdemon, after all, had been a being of one mind and many eyes, seeing all at once, processing it all, experiencing the many voices of the darkspawn. The shared consciousness had been a concert, an ebb and flow like water, a lull and thunder rising and falling as the droplets of taint sought to colonize the world.

Until now. The Old God who had once directed symphonies was blind. And deaf. For a brief, transient moment, RilianUrthemielTheArchitect had existed as a trinity. Now only Rilian remained.

_There was a bright place and many voices then I fell into darkness it was an anti-birth I came out to find I was dead._

_I think Oghren was there. He was with me he was with me he was_

_I remember._

_Grey stone. The flare of torches. Dwarven shouts. Orlesian voices. Pounding feet. Marching. My hands hurt the most. Burned like Rylock's. Sarela didn't say much. Sigrun said a lot. No trees. No sunlight. Just old stone. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._

For a long time there was very little organized consciousness. Occasionally perception crystallized in a face she knew or words she understood, but for an immeasurable time there was only the loss of the Song, the ache of yearning and the listening for something that was like the sea's echo in a deep shell. But gradually - without any sense of how long she'd been gone - Rilian arrived at the sense of who and what she was. It was as if she had been coerced into identifying a corpse.

_I had to ask what the month was, and the day. Ask the Orlesian Senior Mage Warden who only came up to my chin. The woman was afraid of me. Her dark eyes were watching, watching, watching._

_All you need to become terrifying to everyone is not to have died when you should have._

The blue emptiness of sky was vast, terrifying. The part of her that had been born into a taint-stinking, filth-drowning brood cringed away from it. The other parts: the dragon that had once soared across stars and darkness - the Alienage Elf who had dreamed of doing so - were liberated. But all the same Rilian sought solitude and darkness as soon as they arrived at Redcliffe. She asked Sandal to create a worktable and tools to her specifications and set up her laboratory in what had been the Arlessa's dungeon. A single cell. No windows. Claustrophobia hardly mattered, since now she contained infinite space. She could assimilate anything. The prison and its echoes of capture was only a little more fear. Fear wasn't much, now.

* * *

Rilian posted guards to keep intruders away, but they came anyway. Sigrun sank down upon the cold stone, knees drawn up to her chest and muscular arms wrapped around them.

"It's not as bad down here as everyone says," the little Duster remarked, "It only smells a little worse than Dust Town. But you haven't slept for days. And Alistair keeps trying to see you. Have a drop of Oghren's finest - have a wash - and put him out of his misery."

Rilian stood - an abrupt, jerky movement - and cocked her head. Images of Alistair were ephemeral flickers above a vast emptiness. Her memory of him was compressed now. It inhabited a much smaller version of herself: a child version. Around the child version of herself were the other memories, the other voices. She was afraid that speaking to Alistair would send the child out into these unknown spaces - afraid the mote known as Rilian would not find her way back. But she had to see him. There were things he should know.

She refused to leave her vials of blood and the creation she had designed from memory - the Architect's memory. She met Alistair in the stone corridor outside the cell.

"Rilian," he breathed softly.

She stood still, out of time. Six months ago they had sat together upon the highest peak of Temple Mountain and he had given her a rose. They had faced demons and Broodmothers and irate nobles together and stood shoulder to shoulder. They had shared laughter and tears and loss. She had sat with her head resting on his shoulder and known him to be her future: her husband, no matter what his family - or hers - had to say about it.

For a long time, they stood opposite each other without speaking.

"You look different," she said at last. It was true. He had been a boy when she had betrayed him at the Landsmeet. Now he was a man. A Warden. But he was exhausted. His broad, blunt hands, half-reaching towards her, shook. His gold-flecked hazel eyes were wide and shocked. They never left hers.

"You know everything," he said.

"Yes. Morrigan told me everything." Words sprang from her mouth independent of her volition. They had momentarily incandescent meaning, then were gone. She wondered if she would meet them out there in the new spaces around the old life. "Why did you do it, Alistair?"

"I don't know. She…she…"

"Oh not _that_, for the Maker's sake! You did _that_ because you're stupid. Because you were angry with me and let the witch fry your brains. I'm not interested in why you…"

But it wasn't that easy. She had trusted him. Loved him. He had betrayed her. It astonished her - jumped out at her suddenly, even though she had thought she had done with it very soon after Morrigan had told her.

"I mean: how could you turn your back on everything we fought for? You must have known any child that carried Urthemiel's spirit could be tainted again. Another Blight in less than twenty years. Why did you do it?"

Nothing. Just the horror of his stillness. His mouth working futilely, hands clenched. "I was afraid," he said, "Afraid of losing you." A whisper. Rilian watched him cry, as she had watched her father cry. Different. Cyrion had been a man crying, every tear grudged. Alistair's tears were a physical mechanism to which he remained oblivious. It was surprising to her, the way his eyes kept releasing tears, yet him unaware and completely still. "I told the Wardens of Montsimmard - Riordan and Guillaume Caron - everything. There's a representative from Weisshaupt here too - the Senior Mage Warden. They wanted to know how you survived and I told them you'd done everything you should have done - that the guilt was mine."

Rilian laughed dryly. She heard the sounds come out of her mouth and felt exhausted. Alien noises. The worn currency she was forced to use instead of the brilliant, incandescent Song.

"You told them the wrong story. Morrigan never came with me to the Deep Roads. I sent her away as soon as she told me the truth. You're going to be the father of Empress Celene's heir."

The words hit him like knives. Rilian saw him flinch. He seemed to shrink, visibly, as they spoke. His arms hung dead at his sides; his palms turned towards her. She saw the dull incomprehension of a trapped animal staring through the eyes of a man.

"I…I don't understand. How…"

"I meant to die - I leapt down upon the dragon's back to take the final blow - and he stopped me."

"Who stopped you?"

"The Architect. A descendant of Wardens. He was everything he could and should have been. He made the Ultimate Sacrifice, not me. And I was given a choice - between dying and remembering things the way they were. Or living and having everything different. _I'm_ different."

Staring down at the silver snail-trails that gilded the stone, she realized she was in pain. A great empty pain she had never prepared for over all the preceding weeks.

He was seeing her for the first time. The new face - the new mind behind it. Very slowly, he lifted his left hand - the hand scarred by her blow at the Landsmeet. He reached for her stiff, dead fingers. Whispered: "Rilian. Rilian."

"The Rilian you knew was a Warden. Physically, I'm not."

"It doesn't matter. It's still you."

"Yes. I'm going to do what four hundred years of Wardens have failed to do. I'm going to cure the taint. You're the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, now."

It solidified the silence between them. It solidified and expanded it until Rilian realized she had walked away from him, backwards, towards her cell.

_The Old God saw it all. The dragon within me floated free, looked down upon the man and woman. Then, while the echo of Urthemiel hovered, unseen by mortals, something disturbing happened. _

_The god who had become a woman looked into the eyes of the woman who had become a god. The god reeled at the raw emotion in the woman, the desolation and abandonment. The god felt exposed, violated._

_With dire determination, the god resumed its rightful primacy. The last mote of the weak, feeling woman's thinking must cease. _

_I meant what I said to Alistair. I knew I was close to a cure when I used my blood to delay infection in Loghain and Rylock. Now that the Architect's brooch has accelerated my Calling until the Archdemon's death burned it away, who knows what my blood can do?_

_It's time to go to work._

* * *

Jowan's face was white, pinched, when Rilian brought him to her laboratory. His hands shook like pale flying creatures, distorted by erratic tremors. His dark eyes were haunted.

Ser Otto took Rilian aside.

"Rilian, you can't ask him to do this," the Templar Warden said quietly, "Work within the same cell where the Arlessa had him tortured - and with blood. That's like asking a lyrium addict to work with lyrium but touch none of it."

_I suppose you should know_. Rilian bit down on the waspish words, eating them. For no-one else would she have bothered.

"Can no-one see how important this work is! Doesn't anyone understand? If we can find a cure for taint we can end the Blights. I'd say that's worth the price of one man's soul."

"Nothing is worth that price…" Ser Otto began - in the same moment that Jowan said, wearily:

"I guess you're right." The dark, darting eyes were wistful. "Still, it's my soul - and I'd grown almost fond of it."

"I _know_ I'm right." Rilian held out a clean syringe and vial. "I want you to take a sample of my blood."

* * *

_Rylock comes often, blatantly official. Her hawk eyes sweep over everything - watching for the slightest trace of Blood Magic. I know if she finds it she'll run me through without hesitation. I wonder why I do not mind._

_Perhaps because Rylock and Loghain are the only other people I know who have sacrificed soul, sanctity and sanity to protect what needs protecting. Perhaps because Rilian and Rylock have been friends ever since Rylock came from Kirkwall on the trail of a cabal of Tevinter slavers. That's how we met. Rilian was fifteen then - a Docker who had poked her nose where she shouldn't have and followed a shipment of phylacteries to an abandoned warehouse. She told Ser Otto - he told Rylock - and Rylock led him and Ser Tavish in the assault on the coven. Rylock's burns and Ser Otto's blindness bought the Alienage a peace we had for five years…until Loghain let the slavers back in - through the front door this time._

_Even Ser Otto has removed his Templar regalia in favour of plain tunic and trousers - but not Rylock. Never mind that full plate is not the kindest thing on bones knit together by Wynne's magic and her own willpower. The Hurlock General's Stonefist has left her with a limp, a useless right hand, and pain that chastens her day and night. I know it: the marks are stamped on her, though she never says a word. On bad days she sits, chalk-faced, lips pressed tightly together as if to bite back a cry. On good days I detect nothing beyond her hand pressed to her ribs when she thinks I'm not looking._

_Next time I send to Sandal for supplies I'm going to do something about that._

_Rylock doesn't like small, dark cells any more than Jowan does. Rilian once asked Wynne what she thought Aeonar had been like for her and she answered it was said to be - unpleasant. The small pause told more than the word. And Rylock and Jowan fear each other the way a fox fears a net - the way a man fears plague. Rylock fears the Blood Magic that once raped her of body and mind. Jowan fears the Rite of Tranquility that promises the same. They watch each other like cats for any sign of weakness. Both would rather die than show any. Rylock's courage doesn't surprise me. Jowan's does. Since Ser Otto adopted him as a younger brother he's changed. He's finally stopped running. It's a dark, grim, galling test of endurance. And they endure. Because of me. Because of what I must do._

_Jowan's hands are steady as he guides the needle into my arm - draws the blood into a syringe - deposits it into a vial and seals it. His face holds a withdrawn expression, showing neither yearning nor fear._

_"Now," I say to the three of them. "I have something to show you. Rylock: I need Jowan to cast a spell. No Blood Magic - just a light spell."_

_I carefully deposit a small amount of my blood onto a glass slide._

_"Jowan - I need you to illuminate the sample."_

_Jowan's long, elegant fingers move in a graceful dance. Light blooms from them like a flower. Then it dances in the air behind him as if enjoying the game._

_"I think it's afraid of the dark," Jowan says apologetically._

_Ser Otto laughs - earning him identical disapproving looks from me and Rylock. Jowan shrugs whimsically and directs the light where I want it to go. With the sample lit, I talk them through the strange contraption on my desk._

_"I call this…I mean - _The Architect _called this - a microscope. He learned the principle from First Enchanter Remille."_

_Rylock scowls. "Not the best recommendation. Are you sure this isn't Blood Magic, Rilian?"_

_"The study of blood is no more Blood Magic than the study of bones. Or plants. It's medicine, nothing more." I run my hand caressingly over the glittering, tubular stem, the arcs and curves, the space where the slide fits like a glove and the glass eye of the lens. Staring into it is like looking through the eye of an insect - or a dragon. My blood is magnified into droplets that resemble the flesh-bags who once worshipped me. I remember the rites…the chant…the blood taken and the power given in return…_

_IamRilianIamRilianIamRilian_

… _"Here, look," I tell Rylock. Rylock pales and I smother a smile. Raw courage is her life's blood - yet when confronted by this alien device she reacts exactly like the gawky child whom Mother Leanna used to exercise her whip hand. She rises slowly, tight-lipped. Stepping forward, she extends a slow, determined hand. The flesh around her mouth whitens. Sweat beads on her lip. But she stares downward, through the lens. Then straightens like a soldier._

_"And now - for my next trick…" I reach for another vial upon the makeshift shelves and wave it about with a flourish. I remember Rilian used to do the same when performing. Once, she put on a play in the Alienage based on the story of Andraste and Shartan's rebellion. There was a bit where she stood upon a wooden contraption meant to be a horse, daring the Tevinter magisters to cross to the other side of the river Minanter: "If you want him…_come and have a go if you think you're hard enough!"

_Concentrate asshole._

_The new vial holds taint, black and poisonous. I place one drop beside my own red blood and wait to see what happens._

_"See: no-one's yet made a microscope powerful enough to show the individual disease creatures. What we watch for is their effect - on healthy tissue. Or…the effect of healthy tissue on taint. Look here: this is the holiest thing you'll ever see."_

_Rylock obeys - and gasps as she watches my own blood not only resist the taint - but assimilate it._

_"You've found the cure!"_

_I stare at her - and realize for the first time that Rylock is far more intelligent than I've given her credit for. Wynne likes to irritate Rylock by telling her that mages know everything and are allowed to do nothing, while Templars do everything and are allowed to know nothing. But in Rylock's case the spirit crushed beneath the doctrine still manages to find expression: as courage, as dead-pan sarcasm, as the clear, cold arguments that come from conviction not by rote._

_"It's not that simple," I tell them. "Yes, my blood can resist taint - but I don't know what would happen if I gave it to someone untainted. For all I know, I could be equally infectious. It may be that this isn't a cure - but a means to destroy darkspawn. And if it does - what would its effects be on a Warden? One thing I do know…"_

_Pain rises to engulf me, but I was able to see it coming. It's as if I stood on a shore with my back to the sea but felt it rising up behind me, blotting out the pale flicker of magical light. Rylock's presence is a help, if only because the threat and promise of that sword of mercy forces me to be at least partly aware of her, like an ungainly grandfather clock that will not be ignored._

_"…is that if The Architect and First Enchanter Remille had had their way and spread this "cure" to the masses it would have been the end of us. I'm sterile. If the chances of a woman Warden - a woman whose body is constantly fighting darkspawn infection - bearing a child are small, the chances of bearing one after the infection has been accelerated and run its course are zero."_

_I won't look at Ser Otto. I can't bear his sympathy. It's hard to look at Rylock, too: this woman who never wanted what I yearn for and can't have._

_"The question is: what happens to the people I cure using my blood?"_

_"Rilian," Ser Otto says quietly, "If you need to test this on a Warden, I am glad to volunteer."_

_"No! Dammit, who do you think I am: Avernus? Though if he were still alive…I wouldn't have minded experimenting on _him_…" I see Rylock's expression and quickly add, "Kidding!"_

_Rylock is oddly silent - thoughtful. And I'm amazed when Ser Otto chooses that moment to say: "Jowan - let's see if Cyrion has any more of that Elven tea." Amazed that a blind man can see so much._

_When they've gone Rylock says: "Loghain and I are, of course, the only two who've been infected by Blight sickness - and had its onset delayed by Warden blood. And I do not trust Loghain with this kind of research."_

_Her eyes are large, dark and steady: the eyes of a night hunter, circled by blue shadows of exhaustion. I meet the glittering darkness - the light behind them - and nod. I trusted Loghain with my life and my campaign - but I would not trust him here. Not after he let those filthy Tevinter slavers create a magical Elf-only plague._

_"But if I let you do this, you must destroy the sample in front of me, before the Blood Mage gets back."_

_"Done."_

_Rylock fumbles at removing her right gauntlet, the air around her trembling with her impatience. I know better than to offer my help. Her sinewy, hard-muscled forearm is scarred, like mine, and her broken fingers look brittle as sticks. She glares at them as though they have personally offended her. I take a fresh syringe from the pack I found in Flemeth's hut and attach it to a needle. Rylock raises an eyebrow as I slap at the inside of her elbow to make the vein stand up._

_"You seem…worryingly familiar with this procedure."_

_"Of course I am," I say scornfully, "I've tested hundreds in my experiments. I worked on all the Wardens I took from Ostagar…in the darkness beneath Ishal. I remember the chamber where I worked on Duncan. Shall I tell you how many tubes were attached to his body? Shall I recount the way his mouth moved - a gaping, shapeless hole - or the way he screamed when I turned his flesh to something not even an abomination could imagine? Shall I describe everything I did to him…"_

_Without meaning to, I rise. My hands make fierce scraping movements, tearing at the air in front of her like hungry claws. "I told him what I was doing was necessary…necessary…ah, Maker!" My voice scales upward in pitch, like the Litany with which I held Urthemiel, like the trio of voices that marked his ascension. It rises to a scream. "Oh Maker, Maker, help me, I remember everything I did to him!"_

_Somehow, I'm on the stone floor, my hands covering my face, with Rylock kneeling beside me. She pulls my hands away and forces me to look at her. There's a look on her face I can't begin to describe - but it isn't fear. Or blame._

_"Sharing The Architect's memories does not make you guilty of his crimes. They are only memories. They cannot touch your choices, which are your own, or your soul, which belongs to the Maker. You are Rilian, not The Architect…and not - despite what your vanity may tell you - the Old God."_

_From my throat come sounds like a little girl locked in the dark. "How do you know that? How do you know - when _I _don't?"_

_Rylock looks back into an immeasurable distance. The picked-over quality of her words suggest memories too harsh to be shared easily. "Because it was the same for me when Remille's Blood Mage made me torture Ser Guy and then myself. I was the both of us. I felt my own pain - and at the same time I experienced his pleasure. They told me that six months in Aeonar was enough to guarantee that I was free from his influence. But I was still afraid when I returned to active duty that he could continue to act on me. Or worse - to act on the world through me. I soon realized my choices were my own. My mistakes also. What we remember of these other minds are just shadows - echoes. We are not clay in their hands - they are steel in our own. By our own choice, we can use them for good, not evil."_

_"And you did," I say, wiping away tears and snot with the back of my dirty hand. "Without you, I'd be a slave to a demon wearing Nelaros' face - and half my family would be slaves to Tevinter."_

_Rylock smiles - but there's a strange, abstracted look in her eyes. "Thank you, Rilian. I shall remember that. I like to think that I have saved more lives than I have ended. We are taught, in the Order, to think in terms of numbers. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I wonder, though, whether the Maker would count a murdered fourteen year old boy as weighing less than the lives I saved."_

_I've heard this story from Wynne. I can see it very clearly. Rylock after the Blood Mage - after Aeonar - after Remille's uprising. Aneirin hitting her with a Mind Blast, to get away._

_Rylock glances down at her right hand in distaste, as if it has betrayed her. Her words are distant, remote. "It was a strange thing. Watching myself run him through was like watching my blade turned on Ser Guy. Except that what controlled it was not the will of another, but my own fear. Knight Commander Greagoir was, rightly, furious. He had ordered me to bring the boy back with minimum force. He asked me what would happen the next time a mage child tossed a spell at me as a prank. He told me that what had happened had made me unfit for the Tower. I saw that he was right. That is why I volunteered for Kirkwall. There's something strange about that place. We call it "The Hot Zone" because the sheer number of demons and abominations suggest it's being magically poisoned somehow. I asked Knight Commander Guylian for all the most dangerous assignments - and never to be posted to the Gallows. Both he and Knight Commander Meredith were happy with that arrangement."_

_"You wouldn't have hurt the mage children. Just the fact that you were worried about it proves you would have been careful."_

_"Perhaps - but I could hardly use them as guinea-pigs to test that theory."_

_"Twenty years on the front lines. Couldn't they have posted you to guard relics, or something?"_

_"That's not something a mage-hunter is normally asked to do."_

_I stare blankly for a moment - and then I get it. I always imagined mage-hunters would be accorded the most respect within the Chantry. In a way, they are - but they're like Wardens. Or army Generals. Hangmen, undertakers, Death's Hatchetmen. Brought out when needed - but never in polite company._

_Suddenly, I snort with amusement. Rylock eyes me with a sour expression, waiting for me to share the joke._

_"Good luck leading the mages to the Temple of the Ashes."_

_Rylock sighs in resignation. "Believe me, I told Knight Commander Greagoir exactly what I thought of his decision. The trouble with arguing with a dying man is that he invariably has the last word."_

_I stare - my eyes open wide - and then I burst into laughter. I laugh and laugh - can't stop - holding my sides. After Sten's death, I thought nobody would be able to match the wonderful aridity of his humour. Rylock does - and I know this is the sense of humour I'll have to cultivate if I'm ever to hear myself laugh again. And Rylock's brand of honesty is where I must begin if I'm going to stay sane. In my current state, she's as good as it gets._

_Rylock smiles, too. Then she holds out her forearm for the needle. Her plain, sombre face is remarkably peaceful. I'm not sure I could be that steady when being treated by someone who's just broken down and confessed to having committed medical atrocities. I vow to be worthy of her trust._

_I test Rylock's untreated blood…and confirm what we both suspected. That the Warden blood mixed with lyrium I gave her and Loghain wasn't a cure at all - just a delay of the inevitable. Without further treatment, Rylock and Loghain would both have succumbed to Blight sickness within two years. I seem to remember the former Queen of Ferelden dying in similar fashion._

_Then I inject Rylock with my blood. I test her blood again - but it's too soon to tell._

_"Don't worry. If this doesn't cure you - and Loghain - I'll put you both through the Joining. Alistair's a Templar-Warden. I see no reason you can't be a Warden-Templar. If it does - well, I'd like to test your fertility, too. It may be my best chance to gauge…"_

_Rylock gives me an extremely odd look. "Rilian: I am forty years old, and have taken lyrium for over half my life."_

_"Oh. I…see." This is a shame. When using my blood to cure other women soldiers, I'll have to keep tabs on them over the next five years or so - see if any of them become pregnant. I can't spread a cure on a mass scale until I know what the long-term effects might be._

_Which also begs the question: how, exactly, am I going to spread a cure based on my blood on a mass scale? I'd give every last drop - but that would kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. I stare at Rylock, wondering how best to frame my thoughts._

_"You were there when Remille tried to take control of Kinloch Hold. So was Loghain. So was Wynne. I know - from you three, and from The Architect's memories - that he had created magical brooches that could accelerate a Warden's Calling. When the infection is accelerated, and then stopped, you get someone immune, like me. But Remille didn't intend to create brooches for every person in Thedas. He intended to make the taint airborne. I have wondered, since, how he intended to do this. If magic could do such a thing, then why haven't other maleficarum tried it?"_

_Rylock's face is hawk-sharp. She leans forward. This is her Calling, her arena. "Perhaps there will be others. This is something we Templars must watch for."_

_"There was one other time. Only one - and twenty years later. The Tevinter Elf-only plague unleashed in the Alienage. Except I know that plague wasn't created by magic. I know it because every member of my extended family who'd once had marshfever didn't catch it."_

_"I don't understand."_

_"It wasn't created my magic. It was created by science. The same science I'm attempting here. I think the Magister responsible altered what was originally marshfever and set it loose. I think Remille had planned to do something similar with taint: cross it with a perfectly ordinary sickness that spreads through miasma. Now - we know that every one of Remille's associates died when Loghain took back the Tower. Except one. The one who tortured you and got away."_

_Rylock's face is ashen, but her voice is very calm. "His name was Aran Danarian. I wondered at the time why he was headed north-east when we caught up to him."_

_"If I'm to spread a cure, I must learn his technique. But more important than curing taint is to make sure he doesn't survive to repeat his experiments. You told me the Tevinter slave trade reaches all the way from Denerim to Kirkwall to Minrathous. Tell me everything you know. Help me to get him."_

_Rylock shoots to her feet, real fear in her eyes. "Not you - you'll have no defense against that filth! Give me time to find a replacement Knight Commander, and I'll go."_

_I strut. Preen. "You're forgetting that I am a master of the Litany. I'm bard-trained - and now that I have Urthemiel's Song to add to my repertoire, I can paralyze whole hordes of demons…stop possession in its tracks. No Magister's going to make a Blood Puppet out of _me_. An ability a Templar would give their right arm for."_

_Rylock's face goes carefully still. Involuntarily, she glances down at the right arm that tortured and killed her best friend. I blanch, feeling the blood drain from my face, and hang my head to hide the sudden rush of burning tears. "You were wrong about me," I wail, "I'm not myself. I must be Urthemiel, or The Architect. Rilian was never that grossly insensitive."_

_"I hate to interrupt your self-flagellation," Rylock says briskly, "But I'm afraid you always were. After five years, I am well used to it, so there is no new cause for concern."_

_I dare to look up. The dark eyes are warmed by a faint gleam of amusement. Impulsively, I squeeze her hand. "You're a wonderful Templar, Rylock. And a good friend."_

_Only someone who knows her as well as I do could discern in that seemingly unmoved face the slightest tinge of shy appreciation._

_Together we tidy the remains of my experiment, and I destroy the samples of her blood just as Jowan and Ser Otto get back. They've brought tea, and pork scratchings, and my mind is thrown back to the very first day I met Rylock. I was visiting Ser Otto in the tiny Docks flat where he was recovering from his burns. Rylock had come to visit him too: the only Templar who read him reports and shared news as though he were still on active duty. I remember complimenting her on being so flat-chested she didn't need to alter the fit of her man's armour. I remember telling Ser Otto about my first day as a Docker and describing it as a "trial by fire". Sadly, Rylock is right about me. I can't blame my lack of tact on Urthemiel, or The Architect. I come by it honestly._

_It feels almost exactly the same as we sit and eat together - except that Jowan is here, too. The mage-hunter and the Blood Mage are sipping Elven tea together. It's either the silliest beginning of a medical breakthrough in history - or the best._

* * *

Midwinter snow had turned Castle Redcliffe to an ice sculpture. Loghain rode through the front gates, and a gangly squire rushed to see to his horse. The General sighed, the gust of breath swirling in the cold like mist. After eight weeks chasing the remnants of the horde through the Wilds, his body felt like molten metal poured into an iron exoskeleton. Loghain and his men, Teyrn Fergus and his Chasind, and Alistair and the Orlesian Wardens had pushed the darkspawn back to the original Blightwound, and used Dworkin's Gaatlok to seal the breach. The Dwarven army had successfully defended Orzammar. Loghain grunted, thinking to himself that he'd enjoyed the Orlesians' company about as much as he'd expected. He'd made a point of wearing General Thiebaut Caron's armour in front of his nephew, Guillaume - the skin of a leopard. Riordan's second-in-command had been irritatingly unconcerned. He'd remarked only that he'd no more want the armour back than Loghain would have wanted King Cailan's armour back after the Hurlock General had worn it. Guillaume's own griffon armour was - of course - grandiose. But for all that the Orlesian was a supremely competent fighter.

The chevaliers had not attempted to join the Orlesian Wardens. The Wardens had come through the Deep Roads, all the way from the Dales to Orzammar. For the chevaliers to attempt to cross Gherlen's Pass at this time of year would have been suicide.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the Orlesian fleet sitting off Denerim coast. Twenty ships - carrying around eight hundred men. They had been passive since their arrival. But that could mean almost anything; he needed to know what it _did_ mean. Anora had sent a message he'd only gotten last week, explaining she was "entertaining" the Empress' representative, Lady Marjolaine Reveur, along with the Orlesian Grand Cleric Jocasta and Knight Divine Gerard Caron.

Loghain had recalled all Ferelden's forces and would lead them to the capital immediately. He had stopped at Redcliffe for one reason only - and that was to see Rilian. He had a number of reasons.

One was that the presence of Bann Sighard, the Cousland brothers, the Carons and the Chantry at the Landsmeet meant his life was forfeit. The murder of the chevaliers at the Pass last spring - his involvement with Uldred and Tevinter slavers - the rape and torture of Sighard's son by Arl Howe - the destruction of Castle Cousland…all debts being called in by the universal treasury of death. And if his death meant the Bannorn could unite against the invaders he would pay it gladly.

The desire to say goodbye might have been enough to make him visit Rilian: they were friends, after all - to the extent that Loghain could be said to have friends. As it happened, however, he had two additional reasons for wanting to see her. First, he had thought long and searchingly - not his favourite form of exertion - about the implications his death posed for Ferelden…and he didn't like any of his conclusions. Second, he had heard from no less than eight reliable witnesses that early one evening last week, Rilian had been persuaded to leave the Arlessa's dungeon to visit her father. She had returned to the cell to find someone rifling through her research.

The Senior Mage Warden of Weisshaupt.

Rilian had nearly killed her.

Since then, Rilian hadn't left the dungeon. She was protected from the Orlesian Wardens by a succession of Templar guards. By a twist of fate so odd it made Loghain's guts knot, the person Rilian had trusted to protect her was Rylock.

Why _Rylock_, of all people? Rilian and Loghain had both argued with her before the Battle of Drakon River. Both had wanted to allow Jowan to use Blood Magic against the darkspawn and Rylock had forbidden it.

Why would Rilian trust _Rylock_ to protect her and her research? Or were the Templars jailors? He had heard from young Carver Hawke - once his best scout, now a Warden - that barely an hour after the attack on the Weisshaupt Warden, Rilian had called Rylock to see her and they had been heard shouting at each other. Perhaps Rylock was keeping her quarantined as much as she was protecting her.

He was determined to find out.

Loghain's first two attempts met with failure. He was turned away by Templar Sergeant Rocald in a manner more suggestive of the Dock Ward Drunk Toss than a polite refusal. Rocald's dark, ravaged face suggested a hound straining on a leash, just begging for the excuse to tear his throat out. Rocald's wife and children had been murdered by the abomination at Redcliffe, their animated corpses sent out to attack the village at nightfall. Rocald had been a member of the militia then. The next day, he had joined Rylock's Templars.

Cullen and Irminric gave him no warmer reception. He wondered if Rylock were deliberately picking guards who wanted to hang his guts out to dry. Then again, after all his crimes he would be hard pressed to find someone who _didn't _want his head on a pike.

On the third day, Loghain got lucky. He didn't know what duty was so important as to call the heavy mob away and leave Carroll in their place like a lame puppy trailing after a victory procession. He didn't question his good fortune. Carroll greeted him with a friendly smile.

"You're not looking to talk to Rilian, are you? Because I've strict orders not to let _anyone_ pass."

Loghain's jaws chewed iron. "I am not _anyone_. I am Ferelden's General. I need Rilian's assistance in a matter of national security."

"No-one gets to bother Rilian! She's off-limits to all - even Generals. I have my orders."

"I'm going to shove your orders down your throat and open your stomach to pull them back out!"

"Um - is that bad? I'm just trying to do my job! Look…I'll take you right now…just like you wanted…"

"Good lad."

Carroll put up his hands. "Come along, I suppose. Well - since you force me. Someone's got to look after Rilian. See she gets enough to eat. Might as well be you. Stay away from her research through. And don't let her near you with a needle or a syringe."

Loghain gave an exhausted bow. "Thank you. It's good to have a man like you behind me."

"I know, I know. As far behind you as possible."

Chuckling, Loghain opened the door.

The cell was ill-lit, unswept, and cold. Vials of blood were stacked along some makeshift shelves. The cell had a desk, which held an odd-looking object - magical, Loghain supposed. The sheer number of old plates and discarded, half-full cups of tea showed Rilian had given up all pretence of housekeeping. The single torch in its bracket gave just enough light to show the cell was filthy.

Rilian was hunched over her desk, scribbling furiously, tapping one foot. Her eyes were red with exhaustion or malice - or grief - and her left hand curled as though imagining the Weisshaupt Warden's neck between its fingers. The chair she sat on was a strange-looking contraption as well - a normal wooden stool, except that its four feet had small wheels. She spun around on it without bothering to get up. Perched on its edge, she faced Loghain and rasped distinctly: "I'm going to disembowel Carroll for letting _you_ in here."

Several answers fell into place. So: Rylock really was a protector, not a jailor.

The stale air was foul with dirt, rancid sweat, food gone to maggots. Loghain stifled an impulse to gag. Pretending his nauseated expression was a smile, he replied: "No, you won't. Carroll was just trying to help. If you want to get him, you'll have to go through me. And you won't do that. You wouldn't dare. I'm the most popular man in Ferelden."

Rilian kicked off from one wall and whizzed to the other side of the cell. "Horseshit! You're about as popular as a skunk at a wedding. Ferelden's citizens owe you their lives - but now the Blight is over the vultures are gathering to have you hung, drawn and quartered. You'll be lucky to live beyond the Landsmeet: which is, no doubt, why you've come." Rilian blinked malevolently. "You want me to make good on my promise to Anora: make you a Warden. She'll inherit Gwaren - giving her a legitimate claim to the throne - and you'll be able to continue as General of Ferelden as soon as Weisshaupt's not looking. Am I right?"

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

Rilian was rocketing around the cell on the stool. She'd zoom up to a wall, kick it, and then zoom to the other side. It seemed to help her think. Looking at the way she was dressed made it more clear than anything else that Rilian was not herself. With an odd pang, Loghain recalled the young woman who had boasted: "A Warden doesn't fight darkspawn in less than her best." Rilian's preferred outfit had been tight leggings, emblazoned tunic, gaudy buckles, heavy jewelry, and a black leather cloak with a red appliquéd fox's visage. Or the close-fitting Shadow of the Empire purple leather that had made her look like a walking grape. Or the ridiculously ornate Dragonscale armour. Now she was a moving pile of rags, wearing - of all things! - white. White trousers that hung loosely off bony legs - a badly fitting white tunic that showed every stain of blood and sweat and old food. Stranger still was the odd contraption on her head: a kind of golden mesh. It held in place two lenses that magnified her fractured amber eyes. Their combination of abstracted disfocus and searing intensity made her look like a demented insect. She had tucked her quill behind one pointed ear, oblivious to the ink that dripped onto her neck like black blood. She peered up at him.

"Unfortunately, I can't help you. I don't give a dragon's crap for politics. The vulgar rabble of the Landsmeet is as nothing to me now. I have soared on dragon's wings - been worshipped as a god - I have no use for thrones or other trappings."

_On second thoughts_, Loghain thought dourly, _Rilian is very much herself. A vainglorious little bantam. Adding the memories of the Old God was like pouring Dworkin's Gaatlok onto a naked flame._

"Forgive me," he said silkily, "I didn't realize you were too holy to keep promises. Anora has kept hers: she has made Valendrian Bann of the Alienage."

"I can't do it. Come away with you to the Landsmeet. That's what they're waiting for. That's why they didn't try to stop you seeing me. They want me to come out. They want you to make me come out."

Feigning nonchalance, Loghain inquired: "They?"

"_They_! The rutting dogs who call themselves Wardens! The ones who sat on a possible cure for taint for twenty years - who experimented with The Architect's brooches and made Weisshaupt an hourglass about to run out! The ones who wanted to make an example of Ferelden - of you - for outlawing the Order. _See what happens to nations who don't run to us for protection_. The ones who think I ought to be strung up for revealing Warden secrets - and because I slapped that Orlesian whore a couple of times. _They_. They want me to come out so they can jump me. They want you to make me come out."

"Sorry." Loghain loathed dealing with Rilian like this - he'd rather have faced Celene's court without a sword. As a result, he sounded incongruously happy, as though he were having a wonderful time. "I hate to contradict you when you're in such a good mood, but I have no intention of letting the Wardens get their hands on you. In fact, I'm quite certain I want to work against them in every manner possible. Now: you say you know that Weisshaupt has been sitting on a cure for twenty years? _How_ do you know that?"

"I know because the First Warden's slut was in here! Bold as brass, rifling through my papers! I know because she's like me: we were both given brooches - we both had our Calling accelerated and then cured - we're both immune to taint!" She pointed fiercely at the door, then pounded her fist on her thigh. "I came in to find her studying my blood - my _blood_!"

Then her ferocity dimmed.

"The woman's name is Fiona. She said Alistair had told her where to find me. She has some kind of hold on him. She told me I'd misunderstood her. That she hadn't tried to deny Thedas a cure. That that was why she'd joined the Wardens of Montsimmard and hoped to fight at Ostagar. That it was your fault for turning them away. That a cure for tainted soldiers - even if it could also destroy darkspawn - didn't mean we could have fought the Blight without loss of life. Injecting a darkspawn - or an Archdemon - with a lethal mixture is harder than just killing them, after all. She told me the cure didn't mean much until we could find a way to replicate Remille's research and make it airborne. She wanted to work with me."

Rilian glared fiercely. "I wanted to believe her - I _did _believe her. But then I asked what had happened to the remaining brooches." A wild grin stretched her mouth. "And she answered."

Loghain held his breath and said nothing.

"That's when I hit her. She's lucky I didn't stab her in the eye with a tainted needle. I'm a monster. Nobody understands why Rylock defends me. Why she hasn't had me gutted for my forbidden research. The Wardens want to break me. They want me to hide down here until I rot."

Loghain felt frantically that he was getting nowhere. He was tempted to back out of the dungeon, put some distance between himself and Rilian's lunacy. But his regret was stronger than his alarm. He'd already let both Cauthrien and Anora down.

Instead of retreating, he tried a different approach.

"Speaking of Rylock: I've wondered about her involvement in this mess. I heard rumours of an argument."

Rilian interrupted him balefully. "Were we?"

"Were we what?"

"Speaking of Rylock? Or were you just prying?"

Loghain grinned. "I was prying. And I'm going to keep on prying until you say three sentences in a row that make sense. If you don't pull yourself together, you _will_ rot."

"Do you remember when you and Rylock and I disagreed over Jowan at the Drakon River?" As if by accident, some of the tension in Rilian's face loosened. On some level, Loghain had distracted her. "We wanted Jowan to use Blood Magic against the darkspawn and Rylock wouldn't let us."

Loghain grunted.

"She said: _We Templars will fight - but it must be the right fight._" Suddenly, she glared at Loghain as if something he'd done had left a bad taste in her mouth. "You said: _The right fight ends when the dust has cleared and you're still standing - the wrong fight ends when you do_."

She paused a moment as though the meaning should be obvious. "_That's_ why I asked Rylock to protect me from the Wardens - and not you."

Loghain began to hope he was on the right track. He didn't quite understand what Rilian was getting at, but she seemed to be recovering her self-command. Maybe it was time to risk…

Because he was the sort of man who took risks, Loghain said:

"That's better. You're doing much better. Any minute now you're going to be your old self again. There's just a couple of things I still want to know."

He took a deep breath. "Rilian," he began - wondering whether she would object to his use of her given name. She had always insisted he call her Warden (my _father_ calls me by my name - the father you tried to sell to Tevinter!) but he didn't want to use the title and push her back into turmoil. When she didn't react, he said, "What in the name of sanity is the connection between Fiona's answer and Weisshaupt being an hourglass about to run out? Or between that and your need for protection?"

For a long moment, Rilian glowered as if she meant to explode. A muscle in her left cheek twitched…she absently rubbed the old, thin scar - legacy of Arl Howe's assault - smearing ink over the side of her face with her fingertips. Her eyes burned red, drawing the darkness of the cell around her.

"Do you know that the Children bred by the Mother were larval Broodmothers? The Architect's attempt to make his kind self-perpetuating? Do you know how they were created?"

Loghain dared say nothing. He had learned long ago that he had no talent for asking the right questions. Better let Rilian come to the truth in her own way.

"The Architect used the brooch to accelerate Duncan's Calling - accelerate it until he was almost one of them. But human _enough_ to sire Children that bred true. The Architect giving Boann Warden blood to regain her self-awareness was merely a poisoned gift - it had nothing to do with the creation of the Children. They were created because it was Duncan who turned her. What Fiona told me was that they had abandoned testing the brooches because one of their male volunteers - a man nearly as far along as Duncan was when we found him - escaped to the Deep Roads."

Loghain growled, low in his throat. Red rage scored his vision. He understood Rilian now - understood that if he had been there to hear the story he would have snapped Fiona's neck.

Dreamily, Rilian murmured in a sing-song voice: "And the Maker said to them: _be fruitful and multiply_…" Suddenly her eyes snapped awake, her focus sharpened. "How many Broodmothers could he have created before the taint rode him to a screaming gibbering death? And if every one of them bred Children who became Broodmothers in turn - how many darkspawn could _they _have created?" She laughed dryly. "Ferelden knows the answer to that. And because Warden Commander Bregan's treachery told The Architect where to find Urthemiel…and Urthemiel drew them here, instead of to Weisshaupt, who deserved them…we have suffered. And after all that - Fiona expected me to trust the First Warden with Remille's research!"

Loghain was right on the point of asking: _so why don't you help me go and get them at the Landsmeet? Instead of holing up here like a beaten mabari?_ He stopped himself just in time. As soon as the question occurred to him, he realized why Rilian had trusted Rylock instead of him. Because he had let Tevinter slavers unleash an Elf-only plague on the Alienage. Because she knew there was nothing he would not do for his homeland - nothing he would not unleash on Orlais, if he had to.

As if she read his mind, Rilian said: "I thought about who to turn to. I could have asked you to send guards - or Shianni to send Dalish archers. But I know what you've done - and Shianni has told me often enough she wishes she had a way to wipe every shem off the face of Thedas. I wondered if Rylock might want the same: an airborne plague that targets Blood Mages. So I tested her. I offered to work on that. That's why we argued. She tried to kill me for attempting to corrupt her - for falling so far myself. You see: Rylock hates Blood Mages like plague - but she wants to be _good_. Not use evil to fight evil."

"A pity it hasn't occurred to her that the phylacteries are a form of Blood Magic."

Rilian scoffed. "Oh not that tired old argument! The Templars use phylacteries to _track_ - rather like _we_ use the Joining to track darkspawn. They're not using the blood in rituals to kill the mages - even the ones who become maleficarum. They're not hiring "tame" Blood Mages to manipulate it - make the donors controllable."

Loghain's face creased in a worn smile. It was touching, really, that someone so terribly abused as Rilian could retain that kind of innocence. The refusal to use phylacteries for more than tracking might be morality in Rylock's case - for the Chantry as a whole he suspected it was simply to do with the impossibility of controlling "tame" Blood Mages. Or lack of imagination.

He chuckled softly, "So, you trust a Templar who tried to kill you more than you trust the cousin who'd lay down her life for you?"

Rilian looked at him, slowly, like someone waking from nightmare. "Do you think I'm frightened of dying? After what happened in the Trenches? I'm frightened of looking into a mirror and seeing Avernus staring back. I _need_ a friend good enough to kill me before that happens. Maybe if you'd asked for the same instead of for blind loyalty you wouldn't have…"

Something warned Rilian. She stopped the words in her throat. Loghain struggled against a rage that threatened to ruin their friendship forever. "_Never_ insult a woman who gave her life for Ferelden. I won't warn you again."

"I'm sorry," Rilian muttered. She had the sense not to mention Cauthrien by name.

The sorrow in her face wrung Loghain's heart. Without premeditation or forethought he said quietly: "You know, Rilian, if your father saw this pigsty he'd tan your backside."

By luck or intuition, he'd found the right approach. Rilian's face crumpled sheepishly. "I know," she muttered, "I'm going to clean it up. I'll get round to it soon. Then I'll join you at the Landsmeet."

"Thank you. But don't bother clearing up. Just pack up your vials and notes and whatever that contraption is and stay with me in my quarters. I've got a spare room. You can bring your pet Templars and Wardens too - they'll make sure no-one bothers you."

Rilian stared dumbly. She looked around the filthy cell as if Loghain had just asked her to give up the only thing that held her in one piece. She looked like a person lost in memories - her own, and others' - someone who might never find her way back. Then she slowly reached for the enormous case of Dwarven make that had brought the items here. On its side, she had scrawled: _The Luggage_. He knew better than to offer to help - merely watched as she huffed and cursed. She had fitted wheels to the bottom as she had fitted them to her chair, but she still had difficulty. "If only this thing had legs that walked," she grumbled.

Without tension to keep her upright, however, Rilian's legs wobbled and she swayed. Loghain did help her, then, supporting her as she supported The Luggage.

"Have you eaten anything besides Elven tea lately?"

"Oh," Rilian said absently, "It's not that. I'm only a little less hungry than I was when I was a Warden. It's the samples. I must have more tea than blood in my veins by now."

"Idiot," Loghain growled. "I've seen mabari with better sense than you've got."

A whisper of sadness brushed him. _I think Ravenous has better sense than either of us…_

Rilian turned strained, sunken eyes to his and managed a shadow of her old smile. "Hey. You're talking about the Dragonslayer, Hero of Ferelden, Master of the Litany, Scope Jockey and all-round genius here."

Loghain laughed quietly. Then subsided into a silence filled with his own dilemma.

Rilian was right to trust Rylock. What she didn't know was that Anora's letter had told him the Grand Cleric would court martial Rylock and Harith as soon as they returned to Denerim. For disobeying their orders to remain in the capital - for leading the Templars of Denerim and Redcliffe in a war the Chantry still considered to be none of its concern. And when they put an Orlesian Knight Commander in Rylock's place, Rilian would find the Chantry no safe haven.

He intended to warn Rylock - but knew already it would do no good. Rylock's stubborn honesty would tie the noose around her own neck. But Rilian still had a choice. Loghain knew if he was a true friend he'd tell her to get as far away from the Wardens, the Chantry, and old Fereldan war criminals as possible. It was madness to expect that sanity newly built from crystal could endure the lion's den that was the Landsmeet.

_Should I put Rilian in danger merely to protect a nation whose future is so ambivalent?_

_Could I throw away thirty years spent defending something just when Ferelden needs me most?_

The question left a dusty, rotten taste in his mouth.

* * *

_AN: I subscribe to Shakespira's brilliant "Dark Stewards" theory from "The Lion's Den" (for those unfamiliar with her fic, it's the idea that the Wardens tried to use taint to resist Tevinter Blood Magic, and unwittingly unleashed the First Blight). Hence Rilian describing The Architect as "a descendant of Wardens"._

_The Litany Rilian refers to is the Litany of Adralla. My theory is that the Litany is a way of resisting possession through music. It's related to the lost lore of Arlathan Rilian learned from the Arcane Warrior spirit, and to the bard's Captivating Song ability. Because my fic posits a link between demons and taint, Rilian was able to use it to hold Urthemiel. I'm not trying to make her superTabris (honest!) just trying to find a way to explain the quasi-magical powers a level 20 bard with high willpower seems to have._

_The first study of living tissue via microscope was "The Fly's Eye" published in 1644. I think centuries of study by Tevinter magisters could manage the same - particularly with magic providing sample illumination. The only thing I can't see them being able to create is an electron microscope - but the way to get around that is indeed to watch the effects of the sample rather than the sample itself._

_Next up: Chapter 2 - I See A Dark Sail_


	2. Chapter 2: I See A Dark Sail

_**Chapter Two: I See A Dark Sail**_

_I see a dark sail, on the horizon, set under a black cloud that hides the sun_

Jethro Tull: Broadsword

Shadows and spears of light played across the neatly tended park behind Denerim's Chantry. The woman walking there exulted in the beauty. Her Chantry robe featured an embroidered red rose at the left shoulder. It gleamed with the lustre of new acquisition. Shyly, almost disbelievingly, she traced a hand across its stitched edges.

A nightingale swooped gloriously across her path, so close she felt the heavy breath of air currents, the dark-beating wings. Holding her breath at the beauty and power, she tried to follow the soaring flight. The thick trunks of the trees defeated her. They were very old, planted in rigid lines, gnarled by weather and time. Each was sawn off at the general height of a man's head. Whimsically, the woman recalled the stories her Elven cousin had told her about the Vhenadahl: which reached even higher to the heavens. Shianni had said, too, that the Alienage had a saying: "The tall tree catches the forester's eye." It was meant to be a warning to avoid drawing notice as dear Rilian had done. Leliana wondered whether the Chantry's grove held a similar oblique message.

Heavy branches spanned horizontally towards the other trees in the grove, so that no one grew alone, without support. Now, they were bare and stark, snow-laden. In summer a thicket of green shoots would rise from each branch, creating a thick, swaying canopy. This was shelter and succor: all the things Leliana had found within the Chantry and nowhere else.

Looking about her, she was reminded that her visit to the grove had its own secretive need. Newly declared Mother Leliana - proud, humble, joyous, frightened - had sought the grove for its soft, snow-shrouded silence. She felt the ponderous tree trunks excluding the world. She touched the new rose again, setting off delicious memories of the moment Queen Anora had told Grand Cleric Leanna that Sister Leliana had earned the gratitude of the Crown. The Grand Cleric's response had been to promote her.

It was not - standard practice for religious appointments to be brought about by secular authorities: but the new Grand Cleric was one who would always be the where power lay. Rumour had it that this cleaving to power had disgraced the Grand Cleric: seen her prostitute her vows by turning a blind eye to Rendon Howe's atrocities. Naturally, now that Howe was dead, she wished the Crown to protect her from inconvenient reminders.

Unless, of course, Grand Cleric Jocasta triumphed at the Landsmeet, in which case the Orlesian Chantry would have no better friend.

Leliana had been bitterly disappointed to realise the Chantry she adored was possessed of the same scheming, infighting and power-mongering as the life she had fought so hard to leave behind. Still, the Chantry herself endured, no matter how her individual clerics fell short. It was difficult for Leliana to articulate what that meant to her. To be part of it meant to be part of a family - meant to redeem herself for her abandonment of Lothering - meant to leave behind the life she had run from. Her heart swelled with dreams of the clerics who had preceded her, how they healed, guided, consoled. And Leliana - the itinerant bastard of Lady Cecile's husband and an Elven servant - now possessed them all.

She sought one of the wooden benches provided for just the sort of contemplative solitude she needed. Snuggled against the high back, she pulled her feet up under her and seemed to blend into the thick cedar slabs.

Not even the delight of her new rank could dispel the purposelessness that had seized her after the defeat of the horde. She was filled with a dissatisfaction that refused to be identified. Alternately listless or given to frenetic action, she irritated those around her and embarrassed herself.

Until now she had resisted the urge to use the Captivating Song as a means of escape. The Song could corral whole crowds - and, when that failed to prevent capture - the inward withdrawal that resulted could withstand any torture. The resulting calm peacefulness was so pleasant that Marjolaine had warned against the technique. There were sinister rumours of bards who had become enslaved by their ability to lose themselves in self-induced bliss.

Yet she could think of no other way to find the peace that eluded her. Finally, she sealed her senses against the outside world and drifted on the tides of music. Pulses trembled softly in her temples and throat. She dozed as the nightingale does, ever poised for flight.

Her mind refused her. It bolted through images of the darkspawn battles in a series of snapshots of violent death. Finally, she abandoned the attempt. Her bardic senses tingled: vibrated with her own tensions and those of another.

_Someone else was in the grove._

She opened her eyes. For a heartbeat, they refused her focus, so that her first impression was of an out-of-place purple cloak that made her think of crocuses - as if spring had come early. As her vision cleared, she recognized the opulent cloak of Grand Cleric Leanna. The older woman advanced with her mouth twisted in the smile that always made Leliana think of a painted shield. This morning, there were mists floating among the trees, silvery against the black of their ancient trunks. The fog was alive, filtering in and out of the living towers. Even as she watched, the tendrils folded in on themselves, shimmering to nothing like a thing sent to trick and bewilder. Repelled, fascinated, she stared at the teasing maneuvering. There was something about the way the mist's veil slipped across the landscape that frightened her. The unceasing waves and invisible currents made her think of an enemy: probing, prying, testing the land's defenses.

Leliana remembered Harwen Raleigh's dead face. Light that streamed from the estate's windows had disguised the features, mottled them, so that Leliana didn't know if the wide, sightless eyes begged for mercy or winked in macabre jest.

Why would the Grand Cleric come to her with the same wavering, unsure features?

Leliana rose to greet her. Without any return greeting, the woman said: "This is a message. From the Divine to me. You must hear."

Leliana shook her head, befuddled. What had she done to warrant the attention of the Divine?

_"My words will reach you at the time our delegation arrives in Denerim. As friend to both Chantry and Wardens, you have the honour of being summoned to Montsimmard. You will be examined and tested as a replacement for Revered Mother Boann, who is much mourned."_

The Grand Cleric's words came as if she had sand in her teeth. "You're relieved of all your duties. Prepare to meet with Grand Cleric Jocasta. I suggest you isolate yourself and pray. You have a problem with pride."

Covering her unease, Leliana executed a graceful curtsey that seemed to irritate Leanna all the more. Rising to leave, the older woman patted her hand. Her thick, two-fingered ring of gold and amethyst hit with enough force to hurt. Leliana almost giggled, reflecting that even the symbol of the Grand Cleric's office had its hidden dangers.

Leanna said: "Our Orlesian Sister has more information for us, intended for the ears of all the Landsmeet. You may go."

Leliana barely got through her goodbyes. To go home to Montsimmard. The answer to all her restlessness?

During the Blight, she had followed Rilian. There had been repression, intrigue, and the chance to use her finely-honed skills. It had given motion and excitement to life, but not fulfillment. Now that the Blight was over, peace would give Anora the opportunity to grow into the ruler Ferelden needed and provide ever-better service to her people. Grand Cleric Leanna would always seek more power. She was probably capable of conniving with the old guard who secretly longed to put the blood of Calenhad back on the throne.

If Leliana earned the Divine's favour, she could probably hope to match Leanna with her own schemes: replace her in the distant future. If the old schemer didn't outwit death itself.

The first words of the voice came so softly that Leliana was afraid it was the Maker. The touch of ice tingled on her flesh. When the whisper came again, she realized the voice was human. "Don't turn around, Sister Leliana. I have no wish to be seen by you, or anyone. Our meeting must remain unobserved."

A woman. At first, Leliana thought the soft, musical accent must be Orlesian. But underneath the familiar music was a darker, richer tone. It was the difference between champagne and spiced brandy. Antivan? Nevarran? Eyes straight ahead, Leliana said: "Who are you, to be so certain we're not watched?"

Laughter rustled like the soft gusts of snow falling from dead branches. "It is my business…no, my life, to be unseen. The Seeker flourishes best when unobserved."

"You're working with Grand Cleric Leanna? You're…" Leliana bit down on the questions an instant ahead of amused interruption.

"That over-stuffed Winterfest turkey? That bird will be ripe for the plucking at the Landsmeet: the Couslands have proof of her treachery. Your suggestion of an alliance is - insulting. I raced her. I speak for Grand Cleric Jocasta alone. Listen. The Chantry is in the greatest danger since the war with Tevinter. The Qunari are rising. An embassy has already made landfall in Kirkwall. The Arishok watches and waits, spreading their false religion. To defeat them, the Chantry must lose no opportunity; deny no weapon. You understand?"

"Yes." Leliana hardly heard herself.

The unseen speaker continued. "These so-called "Orlesian ships" actually come from Kirkwall. No fleet would dare sail from Orlais in midwinter. Grand Cleric Jocasta and the Knight Divine were sent to Kirkwall by Divine Beatrix last summer, to deal with the so-called mage resistance. The Empress' own representative has been in Ferelden for longer: unseen, waiting. Her abilities to listen, suborn, pervert would be impressive - if they were not tied to a base squabble over a mud-soaked mutt-ridden backwater. This representative has passed back and forth between Ferelden and Kirkwall as a simple refugee, reporting faithfully. The Maker alone knows how unfaithfully she may report to someone else. Jocasta is here to deal with the crimes of General Loghain: but she has become concerned that the Divine has been seduced by the Empress' desire to reclaim this unimportant backwater. A troubling precedent: the old fool Elthina nearly lost the Templar presence in Kirkwall due to a squabble over Orlesian shipping rights: a squabble begun by the Divine at the Empress' behest. Jocasta is concerned that politics may lead to schism, preventing the Chantry being what she should be, _must_ be: immortal, immutable, universal and unchanging."

Leliana's throat worked convulsively, fighting against welling nausea. Jocasta was going to betray the Divine: betray her chosen successor, Mother Dorothea - Leliana's saviour. And yet - wasn't her path the right one? Wasn't defense of the faith a worthier goal than the Great Game Leliana had tried so hard to leave behind?

The speaker waited, knowing that questions must come.

Reluctantly, Leliana forced herself to address the central issue. "If Grand Cleric Jocasta does not approve of the Divine's goals, then she cannot truly wish to see me summoned to Montsimmard. What does she really want of me?"

"Ahhh. They said you were as quick-minded as you are…gifted." There was a pause both before and after the last word; a pause that raised the hair on the back of Leliana's neck. Then: "Grand Cleric Jocasta sees a single threat to the Chantry's unity that goes beyond politics. She sees heresies unleashed and forbidden experiments conducted. The Chant tell us: _The foulest evil can be done in the guise of the fairest favour_. She wishes nothing from you but an honest recounting of your travels with Warden Rilian Tabris."

Leliana's hands were shaking. She gathered herself, said: "The Chant also tells us: _Truth manipulated or misunderstood is evil's poisoning_.

"Obey your instructions. Rilian will not be harmed. Jocasta only wishes to guide her down the proper paths. I am directed to tell you this: the Orlesian representative is a Lady Marjolaine Reveur. She has named you a traitor. Fail to be completely honest, and Jocasta will fail to protect _you_. Your life will become an unending prayer for release. Am I understood?"

"Yes." Leliana was an unanchored vessel drifting on strange tides . She swayed. There was a silent withdrawal of the presence behind her: only the stillness in the air telling her she was alone once more. The morning sun had travelled almost overhead before she could bring herself to move.

When she finally rose, the motion was firm and controlled. After all, before this happened, wasn't she complaining of the lack of excitement in her life? And the Seeker wasn't as clever as she thought: she had called her Sister Leliana, when her true rank was _Mother_. A small chink in the armour of knowledge.

She had taken no more than three steps when the false self-confidence collapsed. Traitor. Marjolaine had framed _that_ charge - but Celene would believe it anyway. Worse: Leliana had truly _been_ a traitor to Ferelden. Five years ago she had been involved in Marjolaine's plot to steal details of King Maric's voyage. Should that knowledge ever come to light, Loghain's vengeance would make Celene's seem like a pleasant dream.

She could beg protection of Dorothea and the Divine - but they were very far away. Jocasta, Marjolaine and Loghain were _here_.

Jocasta was her only hope.

Leliana leaned heavily on one of the old, comforting trees. Memories of Rilian - hair red as her own, cocky, brilliant, laughing - raced through her mind like beads on a golden chain that was slipping through her fingers. A single word stole through her mind, fouling all it touched.

_Betrayal._

* * *

At the same time as Loghain spoke to Rilian, Rylock and Harith received their notices of censure. Rylock was neither surprised nor afraid - she was angry. For the Grand Cleric to call both Knight Commanders away from Redcliffe with the Circle in residence was a security risk. This was why she summoned all her men except Carroll - guarding Rilian - to the Templar quarters in Mother Hannah's Chantry.

Lady Isolde looked up as she strode in. The Arlessa was praying - as she always did at this hour. Rylock thought it commendable - but she might have wished for more privacy, especially as Lady Isolde's son had just been confirmed as a mage apprentice.

No matter.

Rylock addressed the gathering, ramrod straight, staring quietly out into the sea of familiar faces. More familiar than any comrades she had known in Kirkwall. There she had worked mainly with Meredith, and later - after her friend was promoted to Knight-Commander - alone. After two months campaigning against the darkspawn, she knew these men even in identical armour, wearing faceless helms. Somehow their individuality showed up most starkly when all other differences were removed. Cullen always stood with barely-leashed tension - achingly familiar after Rylock's own experience with Blood Magic - Irminric always reminded her strangely of Rilian: standing with head cocked as though listening for music only he could hear. Rocald moved with the peculiarly solid grace of a man who has won more barroom brawls than other Templars have had shaves.

"Brothers in the Maker's service - I have called this emergency chapter to inform you that Knight Commander Harith and I have been called to Denerim to explain our decision to march against the darkspawn - "

There was a babble of protesting voices. Rylock tried not to feel touched but did not quite succeed. She held up a hand for silence.

"I have faith the Maker shall judge us rightly, and that justice shall be served. But while we are away it is imperative that security measures are followed to the letter. It will take until spring for Sulcher's Pass to be clear enough to allow passage to Haven - and this even before we can set up base camp. The Circle will continue to be based at Redcliffe for at least the next three months. Mother Hannah is in charge of all supplies and the spiritual needs of both Templars and mages - security is another matter."

Rylock had thought hard about whom to appoint. The truth was that none of her surviving men were qualified. They were all either junior Templars or Sergeants. And already it was proving difficult to maintain the same standards they held in the Tower. In the Tower, the mage children had been segregated - there were no Mundane children for them to mix with. Here, there were plenty. Wynne had called this a good thing:

"If Mundane and mage children can play together the world may learn not to fear us."

_Teach the world not to fear fire and it will get burned…_

And yet - the mage children were not fire. This was not like Rylock's experiences as a mage-hunter, in which every mage was already a confirmed apostate, maleficar, abomination or demon. Rylock found it difficult to articulate how it did feel when she came into contact - not exactly fear or apprehension. More the sense of something that _could_ endanger. Fire - but only in potential. And nothing so easy as her nervousness of Rilian's microscope. This was potential danger carried in the innocent bodies of thinking, feeling people. She shook her head, and once again cursed Greagoir for tying this assignment like an albatross around her neck.

She had already realized that segregation here was simply not practical. The only way was to rely on the instructors - Wynne, and the newly-promoted Keili and Petra - to watch both sets of children like hawks. Which Wynne did with every appearance of being in the seventh circle of the Golden City. Rylock kept expecting something to go wrong - but so far nothing had.

The person Rylock kept coming back to in her mind was Sergeant Rocald. Of all her men, this man who had lived his entire life at Redcliffe was best-placed to watch for escape attempts. But her thoughts kept coming back to those words: _unfit for the Tower._

In the end, she asked Rocald to stay behind, dismissed the rest, and spoke to him privately.

"Sergeant: your service during the attack on Redcliffe, the darkspawn campaign, and afterwards has been exemplary. And you know the Castle and village grounds like no other. There is no-one I would rather trust with security here - but I must also trust you to tell me whether you can do so in good honour. If not, I will be glad for your honesty and think no less highly of you."

The plain, blunt features went scarlet - worked convulsively. He struggled for several attempts before replying. "Do you think I could harm children who are the ages my children would have been? Never. There's only one to blame for what happened - and that one is hiding behind the Wardens' skirts. Or: _ours_." He leaned heavily on the last word: burned it with accusation. When he continued, his voice was almost a croon: "On your order, I do nothing against the Blood Mage so long as he helps Rilian. Should he ever leave her service…" The sibilant whisper was a soft exhalation of yearning. "I dream of his death. It will be slow. My dead will hear him coming."

Rylock, caught between her own shame at having helped Rilian coddle Jowan, and her own memories of Danarian, saw that the Arlessa - eavesdropping shamelessly - had gone quite white.

Why? They were all agreed she had done nothing wrong beyond attempting to have her mage son home-schooled and that the boy himself was innocent of his mother's foolishness and all the evils that had followed. Rilian, Alistair, Harith - even Jowan himself - had all confirmed that the Blood Mage was responsible for everything. Connor had been taken into the Circle like any other apprentice, and no-one blamed him. What could make Isolde fear Rocald's words?

But the ways of that woman were a mystery that Rylock had no desire to explore. The blunt, plain-speaking Sergeant had made her question her own decision to spare Jowan. Not because she wished for vengeance. She still remembered Meredith's hard-won wisdom: "Death is never Justice". Meredith had embraced the philosophy that it was better to let a proven murderer escape once his power had been spent than to take one's eye off the danger that _might still be prevented_. It had, for Rylock, been saving: had prevented her becoming consumed by the need to hunt Danarian and made her focus instead on protecting others - on stopping future tragedies _before_ they occurred. When she and Meredith had caught up to the Blood Mages too late they had killed them swiftly and painlessly - yes, even the one who had used his own children in his experiments, or the one who had trapped the spirit of the woman he had "loved" inside her own animate corpse. Painlessly - because they were not like the creatures they fought, they were not vigilantes, they were Kirkwall's defenders not its judges.

At least - not until Meredith had judged the Viscount to be unworthy of his office. Rylock still remembered the words - delivered with bags of confidence and Meredith's own lucent charm - that had convinced her: "Funny how that nest of inbred schemers and plotters in Hightown always think they know best for those that toil below. Leave them to the mercy of the maleficarum that stalk the streets? The _nobles_ can afford private protection!" And Rylock had agreed that it was unthinkable for Viscount Threnhold to remove his people's only protection from the things they had seen. Indeed, Rylock could manage only cursory prayers for Threnhold's soul after his death of illness two years later. Her concern had been for the changes in her friend.

They had spent years searching for the source of Kirkwall's magical plague - with the death of Hybris, they had thought they'd found it. When the corruption continued, it had been Rylock's belief that they had simply not found the true source - that somewhere outside Kirkwall lay the lodestone. Meredith had disagreed. "We have both suffered at the hands of demons - but yours came from outside the place you considered safe. _I_ know that the worst dangers come from within." In her eyes had shone the razor image of memory - and she had made Rylock see what she saw: the abomination wearing her sister's face like a defiled mask. And worst of all the real eyes of the little girl behind it, howling in manic terror, begging to be let out. Worldly power had allowed Meredith to concentrate exclusively on watching the mages already within the Gallows: desperate to save them from themselves.

In the end, she was hardly able to take her eyes off them.

But Rylock shut off that train of thought with a click. She had argued that Templars were not meant to hold worldly power - and in the end she had left. With Meredith's full consent, because she was as sick of listening to the arguments as Rylock was of making them. None of that was relevant.

What troubled Rylock was that, while Ser Otto believed in redemption, Rilian was indeed a believer in old-school justice. Rylock cared for the young woman far more than she should, but even Rilian did wrong things. Rilian had told her exactly what she had done to Vaughan before she killed him.

Why would _Rilian_ - of all people - grant mercy to a human Blood Mage who had terrorized a helpless village - summoned demons and walking corpses - cut the ears off the castle's Elven servants before making them dance like foul puppets for his amusement? It was not because Rilian needed Jowan. Rilian had been clear that what she was doing was medicine, not magic.

It didn't make sense.

Unless…A doubt surfaced in Rylock's mind. She imagined it squirming, feeding like the larval forms of demons that lived in the minds of Blood Mages like sealed plague bacilli, waiting to hatch from the bodies of their hosts.

Rylock tasted bile.

She had not been able to watch Jowan all the time. There had been at least one occasion when he had taken Rilian's blood when Rylock was not there - and Ser Otto would not have been able to see whether the entire sample was given back. And now Rilian spoke of traveling to Tevinter.

What better destination for a Blood Mage? And what better way to get there than to travel unmolested, with a guardian who thought it all her own idea?

If Rylock were to quietly dispatch Jowan when Rilian was not looking it would be a betrayal of Rilian's trust. But if she did not, she risked having Rilian manipulated into going to a land ruled by magisters, and, once there, bound and sold to a man like Danarian for his amusement. Or…for the Architect's knowledge. The missing puzzle piece in creating the perfect plague to unleash on Thedas.

As Rylock - lost in thought - strode from the Chantry, the guard at the door executed a perfect salute that went completely unnoticed.

* * *

Loghain remained equally oblivious to the salutes of his men. He had spent the remains of the day racking his brains for a solution to the Landsmeet that did not involve either betraying Ferelden or throwing Rilian to the wolves of the Orlesian Chantry and the Wardens. Only as the sun inched below the horizon did he find his answer.

The red sun balanced on the highest ramparts of Redcliffe Castle, and in its waning light, the snowy courtyard appeared to be ablaze. As it slowly sank behind them, the sun sprayed light so warmly coloured and so mordant that the darkening land appeared to be wet with it and dyed in scarlet. The snow grew red as well, like a sea of blood washing around his knees - or a fireless burning.

Orders to Dworkin were acted on swiftly - and when the Dwarven inventor presented him with an enormous box ceremonially wrapped and sealed, he sought out Alim Surana. The whip-thin, sharp featured Night-Elf-turned-Warden regarded him curiously. When Loghain explained his plan the boy paled - even beneath his nut-brown skin.

"You w - want me - to smuggle this - to Queen Anora?"

"Along with this letter." A letter written in the code Anora shared only with him.

"What if this goes wrong? And what if we're all at the Landsmeet when it does?"

Loghain wrenched his face into an exaggerated, demonic grin. "Then we're mingled Ferelden and Orlesian jelly in a stonebox. A total amorphous mess. Homogenous: just what the Empress wants for our two nations. We won't even need coffins. They'll pour our remains in one giant urn and the inscription will say: _Here lies Lady Knight Divine Teyrn Marjolaine Gerard Loghain Reveur Caron Mac Tir: Only a Harvester would have been more thorough_."

Alim's eyes were huge, dark, and fixed on Loghain's face. He took the box - gingerly, as he would have handled a nest of snakes. But he managed a lopsided grin; raised his voice in a brave show.

"I knew there was a reason my father liked you, Ser. You can count on me."

Night poured an intense purple wine into the courtyard, where it swelled up the sides of the stone. Just before the darkness drowned colour, the brown, grey and silvery white of the landscape shimmered in a moment of defiant glory.

* * *

The castle courtyard was slick with slushy snow, stained the purple of squashed grapes by the evening light. Rylock's feet in their sabatons slithered like pigs in slop: she was aware of Wynne's amused smirk but unable to respond. Balance alone demanded near-total concentration: there was none left over to maintain the Templar posture.

"How dare the Grand Cleric condemn you for defending Ferelden!" Wynne blurted in righteous indignation.

"Are there no secrets in this castle? We only just got the Notices!"

"The father of the young lad who enchants armour is in touch with a Denerim trader named Brosca. He heard it from a man named Slim Couldry, who has connections in Denerim palace…"

Rylock threw her gauntleted hands up. "Stop! It's bad enough knowing we have no security without hearing how every lyrium smuggler and fence is shouting our business."

"The only one shouting is you. You don't seem to feel Bodahn is so dangerous to you when purchasing supplies for the Haven expedition."

Rylock opened her mouth to explain the connection between trading and Templar secrets, but despaired of penetrating the logic involved. Instead she mumbled an assurance and entered the castle, trying to avoid the appearance of slinking.

Wynne adroitly kept pace with her. In trying to avoid her, Rylock came to a clumsy halt in the castle's library, surrounded by mages in the process of arranging tomes recovered from the ruin of Kinloch Hold. Putting up a hand to forestall the babble of questions, she inadvertently hit Wynne with her gauntlet. Further nonplussed, she grabbed Wynne's shoulder to aid the healer's balance, forgetting her own. Staggering, practically embracing Wynne, Rylock lost whatever composure she had left. Leaping back as though Wynne had burned her, she slammed into the wall behind.

Rylock disliked sympathy. Hearing it chopped up by repressed laughter was almost unbearable. When Ines choked out: "What brings you to the library?" she answered with a curt dignity that almost set off another round of laughter.

Then Sweeney and Ines were standing shoulder to shoulder - as they often did - and Sweeney was saying:

"I'm going to travel with you to Denerim and give the Grand Cleric a piece of my mind!"

"Now wait a minute -"

"Young woman: you may think that only you and Knight Commander Harith deserve the blame - or credit - for leading the Templars and mages against the darkspawn, now that Knight Commanders Greagoir and Tavish are dead and beyond their reach - but the fact is that Irving and the rest of us Senior Enchanters made the decision quite of our own accord. That being the case - "

Rylock considered that a moment. It was true that in seeking to draw all the blame onto themselves, she and Harith were in effect saying that the mages were Templar puppets - incapable of their own choices, their own heroism. As she owed the victory at the Western Gate - and her life - to Sweeney and Ines, that was unjust. But what would the point be in taking the Senior Enchanters to Denerim? The Grand Cleric had not summoned them, and would not listen to anything they had to say. Unable to quite articulate her thoughts, she fell back on the refuge of the Templar Rule:

"It says in Paragraph 12, line 14 that: "under no circumstances should a mage presume to defend or uphold the actions of a Templar. To do so would be to encourage fraternization and - _ahem_!" she cleared her throat and carefully did not look in Wynne's direction, "the Order cannot allow that. All Templar actions are judged according to the Rule."

"Oh really? Well, for your information, young woman, I do remember that - and I remember something else as well. The Chant states that all men are works of the Maker's hands and any are expected to come to the aid of those in trouble. You are in trouble - so I shall come to your aid."

A stifled squeak of laughter from a mage child of around ten years, who was gathered in a circle with her friends around one corner of the bookcase.

Rylock cleared her throat. "Your knowledge of the Chant is - noted. But the argument also works in reverse. For Eruditions 7 states: "let no servant of the Maker follow what is most beneficial for himself, but rather what is best for another". It might be - ahem! - beneficial to _me_ to have a mage argue my case before the Grand Cleric, but it would certainly not be best for you."

_Ha! That's got you! Thought all Templars had their brains ruined by lyrium, didn't you?_

There was dead silence in the library. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Sweeney had a glint in his eye, but Rylock wasn't sure what it meant.

"It is funny," he ground out, sounding as though he were spitting every word, "How Templars always know what is best for mages."

"It is funny," Rylock retorted, "How mages always know what is best for the people of Thedas. You take the Libertarian position, do you not? For humanitarian reasons. I have heard you argue that the benefits of healing and defensive magic in war and peace outweigh the risk of magic going awry, through mistakes or malice. Since you have saved the Western Gate with magic - since being healed by Wynne - I have seen first-hand the good it can do. But the Libertarians never ask the opinion of those least able to defend themselves when things go wrong."

Sweeney narrowed a steely pair of eyes. Rylock peered into his wrinkled face - dry, white and dusty, like a piece of chalk or a bowl of flour. Senile Sweeney, the younger mages and Templars called him. This was not, in fact, fair. Sweeney might be extremely short-sighted but his reputation for forgetfulness stemmed largely from the habit of apprentices to blame him for everything that was misplaced or questionable about what they were doing. Whenever a mage child was caught doing something suspect, their standard response was always to say they were there at the behest of Senior Enchanter Sweeney, whose own love of mischief could be counted on not to contradict them. Rylock could see that the mind behind the clouded cataracts was clear and sharp as rock crystal.

"So," he said at last, very slowly and very, very quietly, "We have an orator among us. We have a master of argument. How impressive. And tell me - my young Andraste - you are so learned in the art of philosophy - tell me: what are the conclusions of the Rhetorica Ad Herrenium? What are the three types of causes that a speaker might address? What are the six steps of argumentation? What are the five parts of rhetoric? Can you tell me this? Hmm?"

_Oh, very funny. Very amusing_. "No, ser mage."

"No? But surely you must know the rhetorical discipline known as dispositio?"

"Not personally."

A titter from the mage children. Sweeney stood up.

"Then it's time you were introduced!" He stopped at the bookshelves. "Petra, I have need of a book. The _Rhetorica Ad Herrenium_, by Tullius. Can you get it for me, dear?"

Bemused, shaking her head, Petra dragged over a little footstool. She handed the book to Sweeney, who staggered slightly under its weight. It looked big as a castle keep, and just as impenetrable. The spine made a noise like bone snapping when Sweeney parted the middle pages as Andraste had parted the Tevinter straights.

"Now, if I remember correctly…I think it's in Part Two…Ah, yes. Here we are." Sweeney shoved the book at Rylock, who caught it with a startled "ooof" and held it as gingerly as she had looked into Rilian's microscope.

_The size of it! The weight of it! All those thousands and thousands of words…_

"Read it, please, Knight Commander. Out loud - for the benefit of my old eyes."

"Um_… An introduction is faulty if it can be applied as well to a number of causes; that is called a banal introduction. Again, an introduction which the adversary can use no less well is faulty, and that is called a common introduction. That introduction, again, is faulty which the opponent can turn to his own use against you. And again that is faulty which has been composed in too laboured a style, or is too long; and that which does not appear to have grown out of the cause itself in such a way to have an intimate connection with the Statement of Facts; and, finally, that which fails to make the hearer well disposed or receptive or attentive." _

_There. Happy? I hope that was enjoyable for you. Because I didn't understand a word of it._

"Dispositio is the arrangement of the arguments in an oration," Sweeney declared, "Can you give me an example of the kind of cause you are defending to the Grand Cleric?"

"Um, well, no…"

"No? Well, in that case, I suggest that you refrain from practicing the noble arts of rhetoric and dialectic until you have mastered their fundamentals." Sweeney tapped the book with his index finger. "The Chant says: "What man is there who can comprehend the wisdom by which the Maker knows all things?" You should live by those holy words - and remember: "Even a fool, when she holds her peace, is counted wise."

_Meaning I should shut my mouth? Is that it? Well, why didn't you just say so? Instead of making me jump through fancy mage hoops?_

"Young woman: are you listening? There is another book I would like you to read. A very wonderful book written by a convert of Andraste during unjust imprisonment. Petra, dear - can you swap this book for the _Consolatio Philosophiae_, please?"

Petra breathed a long-suffering sigh, and climbed onto the footstool like one scaling Temple Mountain.

_Give ear to my prayer, oh Maker, and hide not thyself from my supplication. Don't tell me I'm expected to read _this_ monster! It's even bigger than the first. I'd rather be hit over the head with it._

Sweeney's tone held a kind of secret satisfaction. "I'm going to let you carry it on your way to Denerim, and perhaps it will help you understand the weight of the Chantry's history. Because there are many things you have yet to learn, Knight Commander And Andraste's Right Arm. Many, many things. Despite what you may believe."

_Is that so? Well there's one thing I _have _learned, in twenty years on the Chantry's front lines, and that's how to recognize an arrogant mage when I see one._

_And I'm looking at one right now._

Wynne was standing beside a little gaggle of apprentices. Full mage robes hid their feet, drawn hoods enclosed all but the bright, excited faces. The tiny figures wore soft indoor slippers. In their wake, the thick iron-banded doors and stone-slab floor seemed suddenly coarse and ugly. They looked up when Arlessa Isolde and Arl Eamon approached with Connor: the two half-dragging the obviously reluctant boy.

"It's only for a little while, darling," Isolde was saying, "I must speak at the Landsmeet - bear witness to Father's miracle. No-one will be able to say our bloodline is cursed after evidence of such divine favour. You must stay here - with the other apprentices - and be very good. Senior Enchanter Wynne will look after you."

"The snow's heavy. You'll get all wet. And what if I get sick again? Wynne wouldn't know what to do if I got really sick."

"Oh - that poor little boy," Wynne murmured, "If only the fool woman hadn't tried to shield him from the Circle he'd know not to be afraid of us."

Connor went on. "What if the wind blew over a tree? And somebody got hurt? You'd just have to come right back here, wouldn't you?"

Patiently, Isolde explained and soothed. Ines muttered to Wynne: "He's going to drive me crazy. She can't convince him we won't hurt him. Sometimes it's a great temptation to prove him correct: put him across my knee and beat some sense into him."

Wynne was reproachful. Ines snorted. "Still and all: I can't entirely blame her for wanting to keep her own child. You and I both know…well, never mind. Bad enough when the child is a mage and needs training: when the child _isn't_ a mage I call what the Chantry does kidnapping…"

On her way out of the library, Rylock overheard the last, and stopped. She strode towards the Senior Enchanters, armour clanking, making them see the _Knight Commander_.

"This conversation is unacceptable," she said curtly.

A strange, taut expression pinched Ines' normally blunt, pragmatic features. She said, tightly:

"You are a Chantry Child. I heard you describe yourself to Keili as "a child of mages". I remember when you first came to the Tower, as a recruit. That would make you forty now. Rylock: Duty. A name off the Chantry's list for foundlings. If you had been raised by mage parents you might have known another. The Chantry had no right to…"

Stunned and irritated by these extremely personal comments - from one of her own charges! - the Knight Commander counted to ten, slowly. She reminded herself that, mage or no, Ines was her elder by a generation - and had saved her life.

Oddly, Rylock did have another name. The Templar who had brought her to the Chantry had passed it on. It had always annoyed Mother Leanna and rather pleased Rylock that her first name was Ellen: Light. Puzzled her, too. Surely apostates would have named her something like _Morgana_. Or _Lilith_. Rylock blushed slightly to recall a treasured childhood image of herself, grown tall and strong, atoning for parents whom she had always pictured with horns and tails. No maleficarum were ever _that_ impressive - her insistence that they should be had been a perverse form of pride. It was embarrassing to revisit the follies of her youth.

Embarrassment and irritation made her curt. She snapped: "Are you suggesting the mages had a "right" to keep me - the way a person has a right to a kidney or a limb? Children are a privilege, not a right. I belong to the Maker and to the Chantry: by fate _and by choice_." _And I belong to myself…_

_Now, where had _that _come from? __Pride _again_ - it is so hard to live up to the example of Andraste…_

Startled, chagrined, Rylock watched as an inexplicable fury stormed across Ines' face. The heretofore pragmatic herbalist appeared on the verge of some explosive outburst. For a moment, the two of them stood frozen, Rylock knowing instinctively that Ines was fighting a terrible energy inside herself. She did not wish to move for fear of causing that force to break free - being forced to Smite a person who had saved her life would be…regrettable. Finally, stiff-legged, back arched like an angry cat, Ines walked towards the door. Passing Rylock without looking at her, she said: "The right to love you, perhaps. Excuse me."

Rylock watched her go. Even she could not fail to perceive the grief behind the anger. Clues had swirled from her in a welter as confusing as the fall of autumn leaves. Finally, Rylock concluded that the real subject of her emotion must be Wynne. Ines was a few years older than Wynne and had been midwife at the birth of Wynne's child. The child Rylock had been ordered to bring to the Chantry some twenty-two years earlier. Of course Ines would remember that - and blame Rylock for what she considered to be Templar heartlessness. The more Rylock thought about it, the more convinced she became. Ines and Wynne did not often see eye to eye - but Ines must have some feeling for her fellow healer in this matter. Rylock supposed her comment might have been tactless, and was sorry - but it would do no good to apologize. _You can't mend it; best end it_. The matter of Jowan was more important.

Sweeney had joined Ines. Just before Rylock turned away, she saw her put her hand in front of her eyes and her head on his shoulder. Embarrassed to have witnessed something so private, Rylock quickly turned away, left them to each other's tender mercy. Clutching the Maker-damned book the old mage had given her as though it were a package of explosives, she headed upstairs to her quarters.

* * *

That night, Rylock burned the midnight oil. One small candle flickered and shivered across the yellow richness of old parchment. The words wavered in her vision. She grasped the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and absently attempted to flex the stick-like fingers of her right hand. Sounds of life in the castle courtyard drifted through slitted windows…along with noises from the Great Hall below, which now housed the Harrowed mages. Bodahn's familiar hawker's cry mingled with Enchanter Godwin's excruciating rendition of _The Warden Slays The Hurlock General…_

_This is ridiculous: I've faced Blood Mages and demons and darkspawn, yet I've been completely unmanned by that old mage's book. If it wasn't for the _Consolatio Philosophiae _I'd be sound asleep. But I'm not going to let old Sweeney get the better of me. I'm going to learn this text off by heart, if I have to kill myself doing it._

Wordlessly, Rylock struggled to wrap her brain around unfamiliar concepts - or unfamiliar ways of looking at things she had always taken for granted. She wrestled them as though wrestling an angel - was flung down, surrendered - looked up, to find not an enemy but a lover. It was only another way of looking at the story of Andraste, after all…

_What's that noise? A knock on the door - at this time of night?_

Rylock padded to the door on bare feet, having doffed her armour in favour of plain tunic and trousers. The figure was a dim form in long skirts, holding a flickering candle. A face bent over the candleflame: high-cheekboned, arch, with blazing lyrium-blue eyes.

"Wynne?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour. I'm bringing you news you're not going to like, but I have to talk to you about it. Or Loghain."

The mention of that name - coupled with Wynne's presence in her quarters in the middle of the night - burst through Rylock's overworked brain in a flood of mortification. She remembered the deaths of Ser Tavish and so many others by the Drakon River - and the dream of life that had followed…

_Pull yourself together. You flatter yourself if you think Wynne is here for such a reason. This is to do with the Circle - it's only your own guilty conscience that's the matter with you. For shame!_

Very properly, Rylock made a stiff gesture, inviting Wynne inside. With exquisite formality, she intoned: "Senior Enchanter Wynne Carradine. How may I help you?"

Wynne's voice confused Rylock. It was soft, heavy with an urgency that gave it several nuances of intrigue. "I've heard things from Denerim. From Bodahn and others. Did you know there are twenty Orlesian ships sitting off the coast? Did you know there's a representative from the Empress at Denerim palace - a Lady Marjolaine Reveur? And did you know that, while the good Grand Cleric Leanna is chomping at the bit to accuse you and Harith of disobedience to the Chantry, there's also Grand Cleric Jocasta waiting to accuse Loghain?"

Rylock considered this. "I don't see the connection. Of course the Orlesian Grand Cleric is here to accuse Loghain: he is guilty. Guilty of selling Ferelden citizens into slavery - of conspiring with Blood Mages. These things are known - and warrant the Chantry's Justice. Loghain knows this."

"Do I have to spell it out for you? I think the Orlesian Chantry and the Empress are in league. I think Loghain is their first target - but if he somehow avoids giving the Chantry a pretext for an Exalted March they'll find another. Or - a way to weaken Ferelden. Consider that the proposal drawn up by Revered Mother Hannah to move the Circle to the Temple of the Ashes relies upon recognition of the Temple as a Holy Site. Otherwise the standard procedure when a Tower is too badly damaged to sustain that nation's Circle is to relocate the mages to other Circles. You and Harith are in trouble not because you fought darkspawn but because you fought _alongside Ferelden's army_. That means the Orlesians have got to wonder whether the Crown could use you to do so again. It's what Loghain tried before, with Uldred. Relocate us to Orlais and it removes that threat - or turns it against Ferelden. The only witnesses to the Gauntlet are myself, Rilian, Sister Leliana and Alistair. The only witnesses to Eamon's healing are you, Harith, Isolde, Rilian and Alistair. Rilian and Alistair are under jurisdiction of the Wardens - I am a mere mage, and as such my word doesn't count for anything - poor Eamon is not in his right mind, and Isolde is…a woman who tried to shield her mage son. You and Harith are the only two who would otherwise be trusted. Tell me you don't see a connection?"

"And what about Sister Leliana? She is trustworthy - and trusted."

"Indeed. Which is why I fear she may also be in great danger. Did you know she's already in Denerim - based at the Chantry there?"

"Wynne: these conjectures are unfounded. You have not even met the Orlesian Grand Cleric. Neither of us has any idea why she is here. I will fight to defend Sister Leliana - or anyone - from treachery. But I must fight against what is known, not what is suspected."

Rylock's thoughts were murky, guilty. In Jowan's case, she was perfectly willing to consider a pre-emptive strike.

The very mildness of Wynne's tone rattled Rylock. "I stood against Uldred when he brought Loghain's offer of military service in exchange for greater freedom. I did it because I knew the man who betrayed King Cailan would employ any kinds of magic in his fight for what he believed to be right: which may or may not have _been_ right, but no man can know that. And because I knew that Uldred would use any kind of magic in his fight for freedom. To be used as catapults - or archers - or healers - that kind of war magic is clean, if killing can ever be said to be clean. But the uses to which Loghain would put magic - Uldred's, or Jowan's, or Caladrius' - would be dirty. And so they were. That danger is always present, even in wars that are named "just". And for mages, combat always risks the soul even more than it risks our lives: _in extremis_, we have access to options the rest of the world doesn't, with no way to close the box once opened."

Wynne's face was pale, drawn, her eyes full of some knowledge Rylock could not guess at. She went on: "I know that we are of one mind in this. But what you don't sufficiently realize is that the Chantry are just as capable of using mages - or Templars - in the wrong ways. You and I both lived through Remille's rebellion - you know there were as many Templars playing politics as mages. No, I have not met Grand Cleric Jocasta: but I do know she was Revered Mother of Montsimmard at the time. Do you honestly believe she could have seen no evil; spoken none?"

The talk of those dark sails sitting off the coastline suddenly exploded in Rylock's brain in a series of hitherto unmade connections. Meredith had been absolutely sincere in her arguments for defying Threnhold's attempts to remove the Order from Kirkwall. But hadn't the whole problem begun with a squabble over shipping rights?

_Grand Cleric Elthina used Meredith for politics too - why did I never see this before? And if I had, would it have made a difference? I don't know: I only wish I could have saved her as she saved me…_

Rylock dragged her damaged hands over the tired skin of her face, feeling the worry lines rearrange themselves.

"Wynne," she said, "Even if this were all true: what other option do I have than to return to Denerim and bear honest witness to what I have seen and done? _I do not tell lies_. I don't understand what you are asking of me: what exactly is it you think I can do to prevent what you fear?"

"Rather than be used by the generals of one side, or the other, might we not simply…withdraw?"

Slowly, dangerously, Rylock stood up, grinding the force of her gaze into Wynne's. Wynne paled at the dispassionate threat she saw in Rylock's face, but did not back down.

"I am not saying turn apostate. I am saying: secede from national politics - your Templars and the Circle, together."

"I heard you and Ines talking about children. I know you gave more than I can understand to save the Circle's children from Uldred. Is this really about being conscientious objectors - or merely about staying together with the people you love?"

Unexpectedly, Wynne's porcelain-smooth demeanor cracked, like a fissure in a vase.

"_Merely_?" she choked out. "I heard what you said to Ines! If we do not have the "right" to care for our own children do we not even have the right to care for the children we have made our own? Or must the Chantry steal everything that makes us worth more than the stone we walk upon!"

_Rights…rights_. It was a strange concept - and one Rylock had only ever heard mages speak of. Everywhere else in Thedas, people spoke of duty. Rilian's people spoke of duty to community. The Bannorn spoke of duty: the duty of lords to freeholders and vise-versa, a quid pro quo. Protection in exchange for service. The Qun spoke of duty. The Tevinter Imperium spoke of neither rights nor duty but only of power. Rylock had never realized before that what had drawn her to the Chantry like a moth to light was that it was the only organization in Thedas that even hinted at the concept of intrinsic rights: rights earned not through military service, nor bloodline, nor power, but purely by virtue of being the Maker's children.

It annoyed her to hear Wynne criticize the Chantry for falling below standards they alone had set.

Nonetheless: the Chantry _had_ set those standards, and so must uphold them.

Rylock sat down again, the threat draining out of her. She steepled her fingers together, and spoke - slowly, carefully, considering the words as she went along. "I have always thought that I defended the innocent from maleficarum because it is the Maker's will. I did not realise that it is also because I believe in _rights_, too. I do not know exactly what our rights _are_, or should be - whether they should include children, or freedom, or peace, or happiness. I _do_ know they must include owning our own bodies and souls: and that this is what Blood Magic threatens. Do you not see that for your plan to work our community must be hidden? Hidden from the outside world? At Ostagar, you cited the Dalish Clans as examples that such magical communities can work - and I agree: sometimes they can. I will cite the times they fail. Zathrian's Curse - Haven…and even among communities that have Templars: Remille's uprising, and Uldred's. All these tragedies have one thing in common: _they were not stopped save by outside help._ Even Greagoir's action of bolting the doors and sealing the demons inside would not have kept them out forever: do you imagine that demons cannot break down a door, or cross water? You are not even asking to form a mage-only community - I know that - but you are expecting me to guarantee my Templars will do better than Greagoir's. It would be arrogant to assume that. You speak of rights - but expect me to gamble with the rights of our non-mage neighbours that such a community will turn out as it should. No matter the odds, I say the Maker does not play dice with lives and souls - and nor will I. You cannot have mage rights until you have human rights. I will argue the truth at the Landsmeet - argue that Ferelden's Circle must remain in Ferelden - try to make almost any kind of mage-Templar community work: but it must be open to outside justice should internal justice fail."

Bitterly, Wynne said: "And where was outside justice for Thomas Amell? Perhaps we shall have that - in the Maker's time. But the Maker's time is not like the time of men. We may achieve a concept of human rights someday - and laws that uphold them - but it will come too late for this Circle and its children. Goodnight, Rylock."

Rylock read terrible defeat in the stooped back, the lines of exhaustion and brittle age. At the Drakon River, she had known Wynne numinous, laughing, faintly shining in the moonlight like a living statue of Andraste. Now she had blasted forward several decades, like one of Dworkin's explosives shooting towards the sky, leaving only ashes behind. Her last look had been that of a tired old grandmother.

_I did that to her. Me._

But the night at the Drakon River had happened out of time. With the souls of all the dead men floating on the air, they too had been spirit-like, as they would be in the Golden City. Not mage and Templar: just two women.

Here, on Thedas, the dangers of magic existed. Rylock had known in blood, body and soul just what she protected the people of Thedas from. To take chances with their safety based on personal feelings would be a terrible betrayal. To do it based on empathy for the Circle's plight - and Rylock might not be naturally empathic but she too had known what it was to be utterly without power, all self-expression snatched away and the will of another crushed down on her - was less base, but still a betrayal.

Rylock. Duty. Duty to the servants of Redcliffe, the human sacrifices of Haven, the unfortunates who had wandered too close to Zathrien's Clan and been swallowed up by one old man's vengeance.

_I never thought duty could taste so bitter._

* * *

Marjolaine woke in her guest quarters at Denerim palace to feathery snow that fluttered onto grey, cold streets. It was already quite light. The realization that she'd slept so late came as a shock. The nights had been full of intrigue, but a well-trained bard should laugh at forty-eight hours without sleep. She lurched out of bed, still more asleep than awake, and yelped when warm, bare feet missed the wolf-skin rug to land on raw stone. Plain stone - dark, ugly wooden beams- the barking of dogs through her window. Oh, yes, she knew she was in Ferelden. Two frigid steps across the room brightened her mind to full consciousness.

Throwing herself in an abandoned leap, Marjolaine crashed back upon the bed. The feather-stuffed mattress sighed resentment. The heavy frame banged off the stone wall. Laughing softly, Marjolaine burrowed back under the warm furs, curled into snug, secret darkness.

So it should always be, she thought, squirming about in luxurious self-indulgence. Scents tickled her nose: the wild outdoor scent of leather tanned to silken suppleness. The lanolin smell of the wool blanket made her think of fields touched with sea mist. Denerim ocean was an elusive suggestion at the corners of her senses.

Languorously, she thought of other scents, absent from this bed. Leliana's scent of Andraste's Grace, soft-curved limbs sheened with clean sweat. Her fingers tingled with the memory of that strong supple body moving under her touch while soft hands sought, explored, caressed. Leliana's breath touched her cheek, her ear, made her tremble with tiny messages of yearning.

"Enough." She breathed the word softly, flinging back the covers, rising quickly. Ignoring the cold stone, she hurried to the small metal stove at the room's outside wall. Stoking kindling drew her mind from dangerous memories. Opening the ceramic jar next to the stove, she poked at the coals she'd packed inside before going to bed. A few bits of dried leaf, powdered in a mortar, smoked immediately when poured into the jar. She blew the powder into a dainty flame, quickly feeding it small twigs. Once they were burning, she dumped it all onto the waiting kindling. In moments the stove fire was warming the room. Fortunately, the ceramic chimney drew properly. When the wind was wrong, it backed badly, turning the room into a veritable smokehouse.

Celene's palace was light, airy, all swooping arches and open spaces.

While she waited for the water basin on the stove to warm, Marjolaine wrapped herself in a woolen blanket and stared out the window. Her room faced west, with a clear view of the looming monolith of Fort Drakon. A tiny sneer moved Marjolaine's mouth. Only the ill-bred daughter of a commoner would resort to such an unsubtle threat. The prison tower brooded in monumental indifference to the lives that teemed below. Dark clouds prowled sluggishly east.

Retreating to the stove, Marjolaine dropped her silken nightgown to the floor and washed carefully. That done, she reached for a wooden jar cunningly carved to resemble an opening rose. An almost-invisible line marked where the top was fitted. Opening the container, she dipped a finger in its ointment. A smell of roses filled the snug stone chamber. She rubbed the perfume on a comb. Using a delicate golden mirror, she experimented with minor variations in her hairstyle as she stroked it, organizing and scenting. She was replacing the comb when someone knocked on the door.

"I'm not dressed. Wait."

Marjolaine went to the wooden clothes cabinet. She slipped into silken small-clothes, then selected a gown of deep sapphire blue and matching slippers. As she buttoned and adjusted, her anger grew: whoever it was was being very rude by not stating an identity. Exactly what she would expect from the backwoods Dowager Queen.

"Come in." She made no effort to hide the bite of irritation.

The door was flung open.

Grand Cleric Jocasta stood shrouded in shadow, her black robe and hood compounding the darkness of the dim corridor, rendering her almost invisible. The strong, angular face had retreated into the enfolding fastness of her cowl. Her features were marble-smooth and white; her blue-fire stare burned across the room. It pinioned Marjolaine: held her as the jewel eyes of a snake hold a bird. The message from the older woman demanded submission, one will to another.

"No-one - not even a favourite of our most-noble nation's charming Empress - keeps a Grand Cleric of the Chantry waiting in a drafty corridor. You assume much."

Anger released Marjolaine: a warming flood that quickly became a liberating torrent. She caught the look of the other woman squarely; held it with confidence. But she quelled her own sharp retort. The Chantry and the Empress were allies, and there was nothing to be gained by irritating its representative.

"I would never offend the Chantry, Grand Cleric. I'm too well-bred." As if to prove, it, Marjolaine invited her inside with the elaborate courtesies of Orlesian nobility. She rang a tiny silver bell to summon a palace servant, who brought a selection of delicacies. Honey-glazed hazel-nuts, sweet cookies with berry jam, square bars of a dried confection made of seeds, apple pulp and honey. There were also several herb teas. Each was contained in its own ceramic jar. The containers and accompanying cups gleamed in a bright semi-circle around the small charcoal brazier and its pot of hot, brewing water. The tray was an oval of satin-glowing copper, with tubular jade grips. The steel teaspoons had bone handles, carved into the figures of mabari. Marjolaine moved to light candles. Jocasta paced soundlessly, a dark flicker like the shimmer of black water. The unsteady illumination contributed to the sense of otherworldliness that surrounded her. Her loose-fitting robe, swirling about her, took away any physical clues of a human form.

"Indeed," she murmured thoughtfully, "Leliana's descriptions all mentioned your beauty and grace."

Fear cold and thin as a dagger of ice touched Marjolaine. She felt a trickle of sweat under her arm. The older woman took a quick step towards her, her smile positively wolfish. The heavy cape swept open, wing-like. The Grand Cleric's cracking demand was the rattle of hard feathers.

"You are known to have worked for the Empress in delivering details of King Maric's voyage. It was thought an accident delivered him to the sea's vengeance rather than hers. But the good Mother Leliana tells me of multi-directional treachery: of documents proving a connection with a Master Ignacio of the Crows. This is treachery you blamed _her _for - but even torture could not make her confess where King Maric was hidden. Could it be because she was innocent of the double-cross and had no idea where he was being held?"

Marjolaine took a step forward, taut and balanced as a feline predator confronting a threat.

"If I was rude to keep you waiting, it was unintentional. Trying to frighten me is intentionally rude. You think to shout at me and make me nervous? You expect me to weep and confess? Confess what? If I had sold King Maric to the Crows then why have they not beggared Ferelden with a ransom? Your so-called proof is nothing more than a phantom document and the tale of a _proven_ traitor: a woman who was once a bard, then a Chantry sister, then a mercenary working for a renegade Elven Warden. If she has now abandoned her latest employer and sought your protection it proves only that she is willing to sell herself to any who'll shelter her. You expect me to somehow betray myself? I'm not such a fool as that. Nor are you. Speak plainly. What is it you want?"

For several long breaths, the women held each other in unyielding grips of sheer will. Jaw muscles tightened. Small, excited blood vessels writhed in tight, scrawling messages of tension. And then the Grand Cleric threw back her hood and smiled broadly. A generous mouth in an angular, strong face that carried age with ease. She had sleek, silver-white hair cut in the shape of a steel helm. She gripped a startled Marjolaine by the shoulders and shook her gently.

"I see it. I see it now. Why the Empress chose you. It pulses at your temples, draws your hands to fists. The ambition, the irresistible sense of self. The lines at the corners of the eyes, the mouth. The dark, watching pupils: unchanging, uninfluenced."

After a long dueling silence, Marjolaine said: "I asked you before, Grand Cleric: what is it you want?"

"I ask you to do nothing - save that which you are committed to. Except that you will now report everything you see and hear to me, first."

Marjolaine opened startled eyes. "You hide your true face from the Empress? I thought…you and she worked for the same goals." It troubled Marjolaine more than she cared to admit that this woman could have fooled the years of bardic training that had taught her to read the subtlest nuances of expression, of voice. "I pride myself on reading people. You've deceived me. It's a frightening realization."

Seated over the delicious, spiced breakfast, another side of Jocasta crept into their quiet talk. "My father was a Tevinter slave." She said it with a touch of wonder, as well she might. "When I was eight, our master moved to a mansion in Kirkwall - to escape a feud with another magister. The day after my father died - of hardship and overwork - I ran away and presented myself to the Chantry. My tenth year, I reckon. The Chantry took me in. It is my world; my soul. As the Chantry gave me life, so I gladly give my life for the Chantry. Hear this: from birth I was taught to hide within myself. Expressions? Reactions? You see what the Grand Cleric wants you to see. As a child, I was beaten for crying when hurt, or hungry, or afraid. Even for showing pleasure. To me, your bardic signals are merely techniques."

Marjolaine nodded thoughtfully. She would have to remember that a woman who could deceive _her_ could also read her like a book. If she _must_ ever lie to Jocasta, she would have to come to it gradually, starting with a truth. For now, she described her months in Ferelden with complete honesty and accuracy. Jocasta gave a low, resonant chuckle.

"You _have _been a busy girl. It really was clever to aid Channon Cousland against Rendon Howe, and to play on his memories of parents who were made so welcome in the palace of Orlais. Does he truly have proof of Grand Cleric Leanna's turning a blind eye to the massacre?"

"Unfortunately so. He'll not rest until she pays for it. Is that going to be a problem?"

Jocasta waved a negligent hand. "Grand Cleric Leanna for a Cousland vassal King - or King-consort - who will support an international Chantry? A fair bargain. I will need to find a suitable replacement. What I _must _have is the slaver, Loghain: an example to all who would consort with the foulness of Tevinter - attempt to free renegade mages. The situation in Kirkwall is explosive: should a mage rebellion begin the Chantry may not have the strength to confront the wickedness of the Qun or the perversion of Tevinter. But there is a greater threat still."

Marjolaine held her breath, waited patiently.

"The Elf known as Rilian. The crack-brained old fool Genetivi has been telling anyone who'll listen of her findings at the so-called Temple of the Ashes. Of the spirit of Shartan- of heresies such as the one contained in "The Search For The True Prophet". An advocate for Elven rights who claims to speak for the Maker? Who claims to have performed miracles and who somehow _did not die_ in the slaying of an Archdemon? Oh yes, I have learned many Warden truths from the good Knight Divine: I bless the Maker for the bond of brothers. Worst of all are the rumours she searches for a cure for Taint: the very punishment the Maker has bestowed upon Mankind. If her search finds nothing, the enemies of the Chantry will say it is because we preach only tales and legends. A single mistake unleashes unknown powers. A success challenges the very heart of the Chantry's teachings about mages. The Chantry could never again be what it was or is."

A slight movement of Jocasta's hand might have been a bid for personal contact. She failed to complete it.

"In the name of love, if it must be so, I will hate. In the name of life, if it must be so, I will kill. _I will not allow her to destroy my Chantry_."

Marjolaine hid a smile, cocooned within her snug robe like a bird within warm feathers. One thing she was sure Jocasta did not know was that Leliana was not the only witness to the stolen documents. Marjolaine's time in Ferelden had convinced her that the flame-haired Hero of Ferelden was the same skinny girl whose mother had worked for her. Marjolaine had reclaimed the incriminating documents because the Elven teenager had given them to her, not knowing what she held. At the time, Marjolaine had spared her only because it had never occurred to her that an Elven child could read - or be believed. Now she knew better.

A religious reason to remove the threat was good as any other. As for the struggle between the Chantry as tool for the Empress versus the Empress as tool for the Chantry, Marjolaine would make herself indispensible to both. One would protect against the other.

And Jocasta would protect her from Loghain. Thoughtfully, Marjolaine studied the woman. There was a quality to the marble-hard skin that suggested a snow cornice: a thing of deadly quiet, but with the force of mountains in it. Marjolaine suspected the old fool Leanna and Rendon Howe had been kindred spirits: both valued wealth, and both mixed up pain and pleasure in their heads - even if Leanna had only been able to indulge herself with her Chantry Children. No love of pain lived in Jocasta - only a consummate ruthlessness. Nonetheless, she would not rest until she had made an Act of Faith of Loghain and Rilian - a bonfire, with all the trimmings. Marjolaine's secrets would burn with them.

Even if Teyrn Loghain learned the truth and somehow survived the noose drawing around his neck, she doubted he would seek revenge for the removal of Ferelden's King. Had he not betrayed Maric's son? The removal of Maric and Cailan had ensured a commoner of Loghain's blood now sat on Ferelden's throne.

And even if Loghain did - for some unknown reason - object, her knowledge of Maric's true whereabouts would be excellent currency to buy favour.

The logic of it was quite satisfying.

She smiled. "You shall have your goals. What of the Empress'?"

Jocasta smiled dryly. "Oh, I have no objection to this barbaric land being improved by Orlesian culture. I shall let the Knight Divine be the advocate. He is mindless, of course: but it will take the Bannorn longer than a few days to realize that. Certain attractions will cloud their thinking."

Marjolaine laughed. The memories of her conversation with Gerard Caron were indeed pleasant. She certainly understood why the plain, rough-hewn younger brother had chosen to join the Wardens and avoid comparisons. She pictured golden skin and deep lyrium-blue eyes. The hair - sleek and helmet-like - a living, iridescent black. The Knight Divine had the look of both a sheltered nobility of breeding and of an untried strength. There was something in his eyes, though - and in the set of his jaw - that made her think he was not - quite - as in thrall to the iron-spined women who ruled the Chantry as Jocasta believed. There was something in the mouth that was sultry, exotic, sensuous and - almost sullen.

It was a face that could launch a thousand ships. And it was very probable that it would.

Jocasta rose to take her leave. Too swift to be denied, she stepped forward, embraced Marjolaine. The dark wings of her cloak closed out the world. A faint tinge of woodsmoke clung to the black cloth; a ruby clasp was pinned to her breast. As the cloak enfolded her, Marjolaine smelled the drifting smoke of an immolation; in the deep sparkle of the gem, she saw the flicker of flames.

Jocasta released her, held her at arm's length. The marble face turned upward. "Bless this woman, that she may deliver the sinner to grace. The enemy to vengeance."

Marjolaine kissed the Grand Cleric's hand. Letting it go, she kept her head lowered, watching the hem of the robe as Jocasta retreated from the room. Then she closed and bolted the door. She remembered Empress Celene's words, delivered the night Marjolaine had left for Ferelden - to help Warden Commander Riordan slip across the border. It had been a simple thing to ensure he was betrayed into the hands of Rendon Howe…and the Caron brothers, already predisposed to distrust the Butcher of River Dane, had been easily convinced of Loghain's guilt.

_I send you to Ferelden as one sends poison to an enemy. Go with my spirit, my wisdom. Think of what awaits your success. Then think of me, and what awaits your failure. Bring them writhing to the ground. While we stand in the wings, hidden, laughing._

Marjolaine moved to stand by the window again. She threw her head back and laughed. There was hardly any sound, giving her amusement a sinister cast. After a moment, she positioned her hands in front of her as fists, the right ahead of the left. She appeared to study an imaginary long, slim article that extended some distance in front of her. Laughing again, she leaned back, jerked both hands upwards. "Hooked," she said, exulting. "Well and truly hooked."

She leaned out the window and squinted into the swirling distance - staring toward the brooding threat of Fort Drakon - daring fate to take her. Long dark tresses hung free in a swirling stream.

"Celene. Hear me. We're winning."

Tired of that, growing cold again, she hauled herself inside. She toweled her hair with a soft drying cloth. "We're winning," she repeated, then, "_Marjolaine's_ winning. And there'll be plenty of poison left over for you."

Holding up the golden mirror, she combed her long, glistening hair until it smelled rose-garden sweet and glowed black as ocean night.

* * *

Motes of roseate light danced around the Chantry ceiling, around wooden support beams that formed a series of spiked, concentric circles like a crown of thorns. Revered Mother Hannah sat upon a hardbacked chair - easier on arthritis-riddled joints than the softer leather seat reserved for guests. The woman come for confession had chosen a hard chair too, and wore only a plain, dark tunic, indoor shoes, and coarse-grained trousers. These hung loosely around her thin, hard-muscled frame.

Ellen Rylock did not look well. Hannah recognized similar pain to that which she endured in the abused bones and muscles, and one could have hidden tomes within the bags under burning dark eyes. Her dark hair - liberally streaked with grey - was rumpled as though she had spent the night running frantic hands through it. Mother Hannah smiled at her. She liked Ellen, and Redcliffe owed her and Harith nearly as much as they owed Alistair and Rilian for their deliverance. As much as they owed the mages of the Circle.

She smiled at Ellen, attempting to draw the quiet woman out of herself and bring some lightness to events. She did it with the easy humour of one who knows respect and is comfortable extending it to others.

"So: you're Knight Commander of the Circle, now. Privileged to wear the embroidered red flame on your cloak. We've already taught you to read and write - but now you can even learn a foreign language. Or own books - if you get any spare time to read them. I suspect you'd be happier in the field, facing a pride demon without a sword of mercy. Am I correct?"

Ellen blushed slightly and made no attempt to deny it.

Hannah busied herself lighting charcoal under a pan of water and measuring a small amount of herbs brought all the way from Seheron by the redoubtable Bodahn into two porcelain cups. She gave Ellen the time waiting for the water to boil to marshal her thoughts. They exchanged anticipatory smiles at the intense aroma.

Ellen picked up the delicate cup - there was a moment of hesitation - and then the stiff fingers of the right hand holding the cup seemed to grow confused, and she dropped it. Steaming tea splashed the polished floor. The porcelain sprayed away in tiny, chiming splinters.

"Forgive me! Brought all the way from Seheron and a clumsy old woman wastes it making a mess."

"No, no." Hannah put a hand on the sinewy shoulder and bade her remain seated. "It's no matter. And you are hardly old."

"In the Order, we have a saying: Templar years are like mabari years."

Hannah both winced and smiled at the bleak soldier's humour. She could see the parallel: both did indeed live short, brutal lives, were magically altered, and trained for unshakeable loyalty. In the case of mabari, it was more than training - it was breeding. But wasn't that also true for the high proportion of Templars who - like Ellen - were the children of mages? _In the blood_. Nasty phrase.

It was customary to encourage the male Chantry children of mages to take the Templar path. Sometimes the life suited them - sometimes they found acceptance, friendship, loyalty, trust. Other times they overindulged on lyrium, became lazy, corrupt, self-hating, cruel. But no woman chose this path unless she really believed in it - was prepared, as Andraste had, to burn her life away in service to the Maker.

Hannah looked into the plain, honest face and felt her own decades of compromise and uncertain manouvere as a lead weight in her heart. The years spent running Redcliffe Chantry during Meghren's rule - turning a blind eye to the townsfolk who supported Rowan Guerrin - but never bold enough to confront injustice directly. She'd treated many who'd endured questioning by Meghren's guards. Sometimes she imagined she heard their moans in the winds that swirled off Lake Calenhad; sometimes caught herself with her head cocked, momentarily immobilized by the suggestion of their screams in the shrieks of gulls. Walking the lakeshore during a storm had been a treasured pastime before the rebellion.

And Meghren had once forced her to deliver up a Sister. She'd always suspected he'd faked the charge to show his power. The woman broke, of course - confessed to anything and everything. On the execution stage, though, she'd spat on the swordsman and declared herself innocent. She'd died cleansed.

It was the way that Sister carried herself in her last moments…she and Ellen had the same carriage, the same unconscious pride and repressed defiance in the clear, level eyes.

Ellen was not facing torture. Still, she would not escape punishment for her defiance of Grand Cleric Leanna's orders. The very least - usually given to Templars of more junior rank - was the standard forty strokes. For any Templar who'd taken lyrium for twenty years, dismissal - and all that it meant - would be far more physically painful. Hannah knew that for Ellen the last and greatest punishment - the condemnation of perpetual anathema - would be the worst.

Still, she also knew that this was not what had brought her here this morning. She listened as Ellen confessed old sins and new - her own doubts, questions and fears. Some of it she related calmly, though with bitter regret - such as the murder of Aneirin. Other things - the story of her years in Kirkwall, with Knight Commander Meredith - were confused. There was a soft gloss of puzzlement to her words as she questioned whether she had been right to follow her, or wrong - and whether her mistakes lay in not being loyal enough to Meredith, or in not standing up to her.

Then there was her defiance of the Grand Cleric's orders - Ellen had no doubts about that. She related the months campaigning - and the questions thrown up by close contact with mages in ways that did not involve a bloodied sword of mercy.

When she related a certain night by the Drakon River, her face turned scarlet and she could not look at her confessor. Her hands, peering out of the deep sleeves of her Chantry tunic, squirmed like two mice trying to retreat into grain sacks.

She moved on as quickly as she could, still not daring to look up, and came to what Hannah could see was the true reason she had come. The most important question of all.

"Wynne asked me: where was outside justice for Thomas Amell? And he should have had it. But - I can't defend them without compromising the rights of the ones a Templar _should _defend. A soldier who tries to defend everything at once defends nothing. But - I have been thinking - does that have to mean that _no-one_ should defend them? Traditionally, that role has been that of the First Enchanter. But what if the First Enchanter is corrupt - or…not given a fair hearing."

Hannah smiled at Ellen until the latter, sensing pride and delight rather that the condemnation she had expected, dared to look up. She looked nonplussed, not realizing exactly what she had said to make Hannah smile at her that way. Gently, the old cleric said:

"What you told me about Aneirin: the Maker can make good come out of evil. You cannot change the past: you can choose differently next time. Let evil serve as a beacon to warn you away from its own shoals. Your remorse _is_ your penance. Regarding a certain night during the darkspawn campaign - I will say only: of all the sins of war, a celebration of life must surely be the least. Even Andraste knew an earthly husband and earthly pleasures - the only sin would have been to refuse to lay them on the pyre of faith. You have done so - choosing, as Our Lady did, to surrender the mortal flesh to a higher calling. You do not need to berate yourself for the one night in which the mortal flesh received its due."

Ellen still squirmed on her chair a little like a child wearing a punishment cap. But her face - heretofore plain and not particularly becoming - grew transparent - wreathed in a brightly shining smile like the sun through glass. Hannah could not keep from smiling back. It was only with reluctance that she turned her attention to the next point - knowing it would bring the forbidding Templar back and feeling an odd pang of loss.

"Regarding Jowan…" Here Hannah's hands shook as she recalled the terrible loss of life - the anguish of the villagers as they saw wives, daughters, husbands and sons attack them like damaged hand-puppets worked vigorously from the castle. What could she say…and yet… "There is - something strange - about what happened here. Rilian confided to me that she can use the Litany of Adralla: a rare form of musical power that can resist Blood Magic. How can she be a Blood Puppet now? And how was Jowan still able to work Blood Magic while the Arlessa was torturing him? If he was helpless enough to be tortured, could the Lady Isolde not simply have had him killed and ended the attacks? There is more here than meets the eye. And - I know that as a Templar you must do everything in your power to protect Rilian: but after slaying the Archdemon has she not earned your confidence too? You must at least confront her first. Ask for a full account of what happened and see for yourself whether her story rings true or whether there are signs of magical compulsion."

Ellen nodded thoughtfully. "That seems - reasonable." She said it a little huffily.

"Now: the last question - and the greatest. You are right: a Templar must always be a pessimist - that's the nature of guardsmen. You are right also in your belief that a guardsman should not simultaneously be judge and king. The mages must have an advocate - from among their own - and the Circle must be defended from injustice by a force outside the one that polices them. That, my dear, is the real reason I suggested the Temple of the Ashes as the new site. After I had come to know the mages personally, I began to see that the pessimism of guardsmen must have a countering force of hope. The Senior Enchanters endured torture at Uldred's hands and did not turn - they helped save Redcliffe from further evil at a time when they might have been forgiven for wishing to put their tired feet up. The Maker needs you for what you are. He needs the mages just as much for what they are. I began to think about the verse in the Chant that states: "In the absence of light, shadows thrive." Such a miracle as Rilian describes shall refuse to be hidden - people will come from all over Thedas to see it. In so doing, it is inevitable the mages shall have a real community - with injustices such as the one that happened to young Amell prevented by the scrutiny of friends and family."

Ellen blanched. Hannah understood, and smiled quietly to herself. "That…would be a security nightmare worse than anything here."

Mildly, the old cleric asked: "You'd refuse the challenge?"

"No," the younger woman said stoically, "A Knight Commander must have zero tolerance for magical misuse - that must not mean choosing to do the job in the easiest manner possible at the expense of the helpless few."

She looked so glum that Hannah could not help her laughter. Then she suddenly brightened. "But it shall not be me. I can now face dismissal and excommunication in the sure knowledge I am avoiding a worse fate. Thank you."

Chuckling, the older woman forced herself to her feet, rising on stiff, painful joints. Ellen offered an arm - though the Templar looked scarcely more stable after her own recent injuries.

"Don't be too sure of that, my dear. The news of the Orlesian delegation convinces me I must attend the Landsmeet: as advocate for the Circle, young Harith, and you."

_I am seventy years old. What could the Orlesians possibly do, now, that would not be simple freedom - the freeing of a bird from a flimsy, ugly cage?_

Even so, Hannah asked herself whether she had been completely honest with Ellen about her motives for organizing such a mission to the Temple of the Ashes. Was it not also that she wished, for the first time in her life, to touch a true miracle? To know the real Andraste?

The catechism said: "The true Andraste will be challenged, her servants oppressed, her holy places crushed to dust and hidden by time. Yet she will rise, and one among her many will illuminate the truth, again and again and again, so long as mankind exists."

_Time is not the issue. Nor pain. Nor even life._

The stakes soared immeasurably higher than life against life. At risk were the souls of people unknown and uncountable, but people who deserved a faith that taught hope, not control.

She pictured Rilian's face for one brief moment: Rilian as she had looked when returning from the Temple, bearing the Ashes in one hand and sword in the other. She saw again that commitment, amber-fire eyes burning into a future she both wanted and feared, as women have always wanted and feared a birthing.

* * *

_AN: Sort of a filler chapter, with a lot of Chantry stuff and a lot of Alpha women. Somehow, it just worked out that Loghain's POV, Nate's, Harith's, and that of the Caron brothers all come in the next chapter :)_

_It's titled "Remember, Remember" and I'll try and post next week._

_The Rhetorica Ad Herrenium was at one point thought to have been written by Cicero. The Consolatio Philosophiae was written by Boethius during a year-long imprisonment. Since the devs seem to have based Tevinter on Ancient Rome I thought the Circle mages might have such texts._

_One of things that annoys me about DA2 is that stuff like the "Tranquil Solution" draws parallels with Nazi Germany and therefore the idea that everyone has a concept of human rights but chooses to ignore them in the case of mages. If DA-verse is anything like its medieval equivalent, the Rights of Man wouldn't be published until centuries later. Andrasteanism would be its precursor. That's why I think the Circle mages are probably the first people on Thedas to come up up with anachronisms like "rights" "just war" and "conscientious objectors" - they see the Chantry not practicing what it preaches. And they have the spare time to philosophise. Everyone else on Thedas is too busy surviving._


End file.
